


Borne of Thrall

by Myrmex



Series: A Spindle of Three [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (mostly) Good!Dursleys, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, BAMF!House-elves, Dimension Travel, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Harry and Hermione are a disastrous duo, House-elf magic, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Parallel Universe, Squib!Dursleys, Time Travel, Worldbuilding, and by slow i mean SLOW, more tags to be added later, slowburn romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24011554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrmex/pseuds/Myrmex
Summary: In one universe, Vernon and Marge Dursley loathe their wizard nephew.In another universe, Vernon and Marge Dursley adore their witch sister.Harry's inability to let things go lands Hermione in dilemmas that are hazardous to the continuation of her sanity. As usual, it's all the fault of the bloody house-elves.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/James Potter, Regulus Black & Harry Potter, Slowburn Hermione Dursley/James Potter
Series: A Spindle of Three [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747378
Comments: 98
Kudos: 210





	1. The Beginning of the End

**31st July, 2130**

**Potter’s Grange**

In order to fully comprehend the utter absurdity that was to become Hermione’s life, one needed only to know one thing: it was all the fault of the bloody house-elves.

. . .

The first thing she remembered about that dreadful day at Potters’ Grange was Harry’s chuckle. As she descended the stairs grumpily, making a grunt which could perhaps have been taken as a ‘good morning’ if one were a troll, his voice was warm and deep, emerging from the reading nook in their big bay window - her chosen indulgence in the construction of their little fort of isolation. He observed her over his glasses, the morning sun glinting off of the lenses.

“Good morning, Hermione.” 

Another grunt escaped her in response. Her brain rapidly caught up, however, and she felt a small smile worm its way through the pre-caffeine muddle that was her head. “Happy birthday, you old codger. How old are you this time, then? Have we finally reached the Big One and a Half?”

“Against all odds, I have truly reached one-hundred and fifty - at least, if the owl from dear Harriet is to be believed. I can’t quite remember myself, but in any case, I’m sure our friend Old Tom is rolling in his grave at the thought of my having survived another year once again.”

“Harriet… is that Etta Greengrass or Henna Bones? Or perhaps little Henriette Malfoy?” She tried not to sound too teasing since it _was_ his birthday, after all, but he heard it anyway, as he always did. His amused half-smirk became slightly more genuine; to this day, vestiges of the Harry-derived name boom from after the Second Wizarding War remained, and after he had gotten over his initial annoyance, it had become a running source of amusement for them, following their schoolmates’ descendants to see who would be named after him and what increasingly creative cognates had sprung up.

“Henriette, actually, and she’s hardly _little_ , or so she says. She’s received her Hogwarts letter and is demanding that I invent and take a potion to regress my years so that I’ll be around in a few years’ time to see her make the youngest Auror of the last century.” 

“What a perfect mix of Ron and Draco she is, and isn’t _that_ a scary thought.”

“The fact that they’re co-however-many-great-grandfathers? Indeed,” Harry smirked. He ran a hand through hair which had remained stubbornly dark and grey instead of growing white, the action the exact same as it had been when they were children, fingers betraying only a hint of unsteadiness.

Hermione’s eyes, still attempting to cleave through the crust of sleep, dipped to where a slim, worn book was lying open in his lap. She didn’t recognise it, but she also didn’t inquire, an instinct long tempered by the understanding of their many decades living in what was essentially an hermitage; if one didn’t bring it up, the other was better off not asking. It paid off mostly; there was a certain sense of childish excitement that she got whenever she cracked open an issue of a magical journal to see what new brilliance her dearest friend had come up with, and she knew the same was true for him. When one was as old as they were, any entertainment was a delight, so instead of asking, she yawned.

“Shall I put the kettle on, then?”

She was already padding over to the kitchen, quicker than her aged limbs might have suggested, when her friend murmured an affirmative. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw that his gaze had moved from her to the pages of the book he held, and his expression had quite abruptly been overcome with a strange mix of wistfulness, weariness, and regret. Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps his favourite honey-infused lavender tea would ward off whatever sombre thoughts had plagued him, if his mood didn’t swing the other way first.

She’d just turned on their ancient Muggle kettle when Harry’s instant mood fluctuations ran true. A shout came from the living room, startling her, and she swore as she almost dropped their mugs.

“Dammit, Harry!”

“I’m going to do it today, Hermione!” His voice was suddenly and impossibly buoyant for the hour. It was annoyingly easy to tell he had been awake for at least three hours before she had come down; not once in their one-hundred and thirty-one years living together had she been able to get him to wake any later than the crack of dawn. 

_(The ghost of Petunia Dursley lives on_ , he cackled whenever she clucked disapprovingly like the old biddy she’d become. _I moved across the damn world and she died a century ago, and still… Knew there was some squib blood in her, a Muggle could_ not _be so damn persistent at haunting me.)_

“What’s that?” Hermione called back, over the whistle of kettle. “You’ve finally come to your senses? Going to reveal the cure for vampirism? What name are you going to use this time, then?” She paused. “It’s not that Aurelius Snape nonsense again, is it?” 

She twitched, feeling that familiar mixture of amusement and distaste. As admirable as the man’s actions had been during the war of their childhood, his personality had still left much to be desired, and she really couldn’t help the shudder that got her whenever she saw Harry’s work published under the guise of a long-lost Snape relative. Adolescent hurts were adolescent hurts, after all, and she had never quite forgotten the young pain of hearing _I see no difference_ … perhaps she didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to the lingering ghosts of the past, either. She couldn’t deny the certain sense of gratifying irony such a byline would lend to an article on that specific topic, however.

A chuckle sounded knowingly. “No, no, I’m at a _dead_ end with that, unfortunately.” She snorted at the horrible pun, and he continued on. “This is different - it’s something that’s been in the works for a few years. I’m publishing it under my own name this time, you’ll see it in _Advances in the Arcane_ by the end of the week.”

As she stirred honey into the two mugs, teaspoon clacking against the sides noisily, she cocked her head. “Really? Not going to be controversial, is it?”

“I know it’s been a while since I’ve done it that way, but this one is special. A pet project of mine, if you will. Not something I’d mind putting my name behind at all, and I… I’d hoped to see your face when you read it.”

She pondered that as she brought the mugs over. He certainly had been deep into his books for a considerable time, even more so than when they had been researching Chinese blood wards, trying to nail down the latest victim to be enthralled by the Elder Wand which had refused to stay buried with Albus Dumbledore (and which, upon being reunited with Harry, refused to be parted from him - their attempts to destroy it were still a work-in-progress). He had been disappearing from the cottage quite often, too, recently. The name of the journal didn’t provide much of a hint as to what this could all be about; _Advances in the Arcane_ tended to field a large range of topics, so long as they could all be linked to the esoteric, obscure magics which Harry had found a particular delight in studying sometime after this thirtieth birthday.

As Harry took his tea, she smiled sunnily at him over the rim of her mug, feeling a stirring of long-retired girlish exuberance in her bones. “Consider me intrigued.”

He smiled back at her, and they settled into a companionable silence. 

“Hermione,” he said after some time.

“Hmm?” She started, drawn out of thoughts on the schedule she had been planning for the latest brewing order to have come in. Anzam - the Australian and New Zealand Academy of Magic - had begun relying quite heavily on the reclusive ‘Aurelius Snape and his prodigious wife’ for their Nurse’s Wing supplies once it was revealed that they lived quite close and were able to complete enormous bulk orders much more quickly than other potioneers in the region. The orders filled up the time between larger research projects quite nicely.

“Have you been happy?”

“Right now? In general?”

“Either. Both.”

Hermione’s brows lifted. “What’s brought this on, then?” 

Harry only gazed at her. Her lips pursed when he seemed not to mind her silence, waiting patiently.

“Yes,” she said after a pause.

“Yes?”

“If you want a more specific answer, give me a more specific question.”

Harry laughed. “You’ve become a right prickly old crone, Hermione.” She rolled her eyes, and he conceded. “Fine, fine. How about the choices we’ve made then? Are you happy with those?” It was an unbroached topic, and Hermione found herself surprised; with Harry and Hermione, there were precious few of those left. She wondered why he had thought to bring this up today, of all days.

“I... I suppose I am,” she finally said, and her left eye twitched at the stutter; it seemed all her youthful ticks were coming to the fore today. She continued more firmly. Unbroached though the topic was, there was much to be said about it that she realised she had never verbalised for him at all. She had always taken it for granted that they seemed to be on the same page, always. 

“It was the right choice, leaving Britain after the war, even if… things weren’t the same with the Weasleys, or with anyone else. The both of us… we were different from Ron, or Ginny, or Neville, or Luna. The Wizarding World was never really _ours_ to live in, was it? Only to protect.” Though that wasn’t quite true; the Wizarding World had been Harry’s to protect, but Harry had been Hermione’s to protect.

The man may not have wanted to hear it, but Hermione had spent her formative years with the mantra _Harry survives, Harry must survive, Harry survives, Harry must survive_ seeping endlessly into the cracks of every thought and action she had made. That it had switched from _Harry must survive_ to _Harry must be happy_ after the first condition was resoundingly met was no surprise at all, really. 

As much as Harry loved magic, and loved the people he had literally _died_ for, he would never have been happy with the lack of anonymity, the overwhelming demands whenever a new threat arose, or the pressure from all angles to live up to his larger-than-life status. From their year on the run, it had become apparent that Harry felt, to his deeper soul and essence, a _duty_ to help the people he had been raised to sacrifice himself for, but fuck anyone who thought Hermione Granger would leave him at the vicious claws of Wizarding Britain to do it. She had seen too many of them attempt to take a chunk out of Harry, and they would have done so until there was nothing left. She had had enough of them being taken advantage of, and they would continue changing the world on their own terms.

With the broken hearts of their respective Weasleys in their trail, they had left, and had (almost) never looked back.

Harry eyed her, not saying anything. It was one of those rare times where it was hard to gauge what he was thinking, and the only thing she could do was widen her own smile.

“So in that respect, I’m quite satisfied, I think, with the work we’ve done. A close cure for lycanthropy, tackling Muggleborn rights, helping young Aurors. Perhaps if we had stayed, we’d both have a veritable brood of Potters and Weasleys, and be content, but we never would have achieved what we have from here. I don’t think you would have _truly_ been happy, Harry, not being so… _beholden_ to everyone there. A few owls a year from our schoolmates and their children has been a nice compromise, and we’ve improved the lives of so many magical citizens, I hardly think the isolation an unfair exchange.”

Harry still said nothing.

“And in any case, if I _weren’t_ , “ she continued pragmatically, “it’s hardly as if we can do much about it now. We’re rather at the end of our ropes, aren’t we? Even the oldest wizards don’t reach two centuries.”

Harry’s thumb traced the spine of his book absently. “I suppose I ask because we _are_ at the end of our ropes,” he said quietly. “Or, at least, I am.” 

Uncertainty, that foreign, old feeling which had fled from her long ago, bloomed in her chest once more, alongside clarity. “Harry, have _you_ been happy?”

“I rather think my answer to be the same as yours,” he said wryly, and she wondered at her own skills at denial that such a revelation, while not surprising, _hurt_. Still, her eyes were remarkably clear as she nodded resolutely, sounding awfully petulant for one who was coming up to her one-hundred and fifty-first birthday.

“Well, I take it back; it’s not the end of the world. We can finish up all our current projects here, and then go back and finally meet all those miscreants who’ve been pestering us. Neville’s still sprightly too, I hear-”

He looked down at his lap, and Hermione finally saw what it was: the old photo album Hagrid had given him at the end of their first year. It had been flipped back to the first page, where an adoring Lily and James Potter smiled up at their brilliant, accomplished, loving son.

In an apparent non sequitur, Harry said casually, “Why do you think the Deathly Hallows have been gathering? It’s no coincidence that the Wand followed us here all those years ago, and the Stone showing up in January can’t have been an accident, either.” His earlier smile was creeping back. “They’ve lost patience. They’ve waited long enough to be reconciled with their last master, I think.”

Hermione furiously glared at him. “Well, I _don’t_ think! I think they can wait another bloody fifty years! I’ll shove the wand up the next Dark Lord’s arse myself if that’s what it takes to get it away from y-”

His smile was full-blown now, a cheeky grin which seemed to do that which Henrietta Malfoy had wanted a potion for. “Perhaps this is what it’ll take to finally be forever rid of the damn things. We can tick that off of our project bucket list.”

“I can’t believe you’re _smiling_ ,” Hermione hissed.

“This is what old people do.” She knew he wasn’t talking about his inappropriate good humour.

“No.” Her fingers were white, clenched around the handle of her mug. “No, Harry James Potter.”

“It’s happening soon, Hermione, I know it. I can feel it.” 

She was not crying, hadn’t even felt the tears bubbling up or the tell-tale pressure behind her eyes, but he was kneeling in front of her chair now, tea left cold on the end table. When he looked at her, his eyes sparkled with _something_ that looked too sincere, too accepting, and her anger morphed into panic.

“Without me around, you won’t be anchored here anymore.”

“Harry, you ridiculous buggering man-”

“I want you to be happier. For the long and wonderful time you have left.”

There were still no tears, but her head was racing. She opened her mouth, but there was nothing to say. How could she even _articulate_ herself? _No_ , she would not be happy without Harry, _no,_ who did she have aside from him, _no,_ how utterly selfish of him, the audacity of him to bring this up when she had _other_ things to do, _potions_ to brew-

His weathered fingers traced her face lightly and brushed against a frizzy white curl, cutting her off as effectively as if he had clapped a hand over her open mouth. Green eyes, still as vibrant as they had been that first day, when she had met an eleven-year-old boy eating chocolate frogs on the Hogwarts Express, gazed at her with immeasurable fondness. “I want to be buried at Godric’s Hollow, with my parents. Can you do that for me, old friend?”

A shuddering breath left her, but after two long minutes, she nodded.

. . .

**1st August, 2130**

**Godric’s Hollow**

The next day, she delivered on her promise.

There was no weeping involved. As grey as she was, it seemed that anything that might have flowed through the ancient tear ways had dried up, and whatever idea Harry had had about her happiness, she had not had cause for tears in some time. However, that day, kneeling in front of a small plot of freshly-turned earth lined by one nondescript headstone, she truly did feel all her years. 

The smooth marble, though handsome, looked no more dignified than any of the others in the all but silent cemetery. It was exactly as Harry had wanted; he had, after all, left the exact wording to be used on a scrap of parchment on his bedside table. _Impudent man_ had been the first thing to come to mind when she had seen it.

_HARRY JAMES POTTER_

_Born 31st July 1980_

_Died 31st July 2130_

_Beloved son, friend, and brother_

_I gladly receive the dreams_

_which follow in my eternal sleep_

She conjured a single lily and sat there for many hours, tracing the lines that made up ‘brother’ with her eyes, committing it to memory. He had been her only family for so long that she felt bereft, a sudden loneliness choking her. Yet, she did not cry. She knew from experience, having sat in on many funerals in disguise with Harry beside her. She had not cried for Ron, nor Ginny or Luna. Not on the day, at least. When it inevitably sunk in days later, that was a different story.

When she finally felt something impose upon the utter ennui she had been wallowing in - a stirring of thought, the need for distraction beginning to sink in - she began the long Apparition back to Potter’s Grange. 

The practiced journey through city after city blurred around her, and in her haze, she might not have noticed or even cared if she Splinched herself. However, nothing happened, and when she finally appeared in Auckland, the last jump of Apparition brought her into the home she had shared with Harry Potter. It might have been midnight or early morning by that time, but that was of no consequence. Immediately, boxes were conjured, and she began levitating everything she could find into them, sealing them shut.

It was time to go home. Neville would be ecstatic to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been literal years since I’ve tried my hand at writing fanfiction, rather than just consuming frankly unhealthy amounts of it, so any resultant terribleness is most definitely due to me being out of practice. Sorry about that.
> 
> This and the next chapter were meant to be one, but it was getting too long and unwieldy. Chapters 1-3 are being published in one go, to get as much backstory out of the way as possible before we get into the good stuff. Please enjoy!
> 
> The quote on Harry’s headstone is a bit of liberal twisting of the quote from Hamlet: “For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.”


	2. Where Potter Go, Granger Doth Follow

**August 2nd, 2130**

**Potter’s Grange**

_Advances in the Arcane_ was owled to her two days after Harry’s one-woman funeral; or rather, the article Harry had written had been owled. Hermione had been sitting in the kitchen, one of the last places in the cottage to be packed up. Aside from the kitchen, only the library and Harry’s bedroom and study were left to go, but the sheer physical _repulsion_ she felt every time she tried to open those doors was staggering. There were only so many times one could recoil from a doorknob without feeling absolutely pathetic, and so she found herself in the kitchen, trying to fortify herself with tea.

When the handsome horned owl began tapping on the window, the interruption to her melancholy was a blessed relief.

“Hello there,” she murmured, ignoring the hoarseness of her voice. “What do you have for me?” The only thing that stopped her fingers from shaking as she took it was the fact that it couldn’t have been a condolence or some other banal platitude of sympathy; she had yet to tell anyone about Harry.

After being relieved of its package, the owl spared her one soft hoot, before taking off. What was left was a thick scroll of papers, tied elegantly with a silk ribbon. A note accompanied it, and Hermione unravelled that first, placing the smaller parchment which had been ensconced in it aside.

The note read:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we have had to withdraw your article from this month’s issue. We are unsure as of yet whether there will be an opening to include it in the future. If so, we will be in touch. Thank you for your understanding._

_Sincerely,_

_Aloysius Mueller_

_Editor-in-chief_

_Advances in the Arcane_

Well, it hadn’t been the first time their work had been rejected; despite the headways they had made from the society of their childhood, there were still some in the community who had both power and annoyingly conservative ideas. Yes, progress had been made, but the magicals tended to advance in ideology only twenty years to the Muggles’ century. It had been the topic of many a night filled with Gobblerum and rants.

She turned to the smaller note, which read:

_I’m sorry, Harry. Believe me, it’s brilliant, but certain parties vetoed it when they realised it wasn’t in the discard pile. Tried to speed it up as much as I could but, well, I’ll ask around and see if any of the other journals are willing to be a bit more controversial._

_Aloys_

Mysteries had always been a weakness of hers, her appetite for them whetted first by their adventure with the Philosopher’s Stone when she had been barely more than a baby. Now, the distraction was more than welcome, and the comfortable, bloody-minded focus she settled into pushed any wretchedness firmly out of her mind.

With her interest piqued, Hermione hurriedly unravelled the thick scroll that remained. The headline was the first thing during that dreadful slog of days to make Hermione cry, and Harry had most certainly _not_ been there to see her face as she read it.

_WIZARDKIND’S FIRST FORAY INTO THE ENIGMATIC SOCIETY OF THE ELVES_

_The first of a series of interviews with Algy the Elder on never-before-explored issues such as house-elf sociology, what happens to free elves, and why today’s house-elf bonds are a corruption of true magic_

_By Harry James Potter_

The house-elves had always been a sore spot for her. Her infamous and ill-received attempts at browbeating them with their right to freedom during her Hogwarts days had left a sour taste in her mouth, but she had tried to restart her probes into house-elf lives after she learned to approach her research with a gentler hand. Over the years, she had seen house-elves in places outside of Britain, and while many endured similar ghastly circumstances to their British counterparts, there were others who - while certainly not _embracing_ the concept - were not driven to damaged psyche by being freed, the way she objectively knew Dobby’s had been no matter how much love and admiration she had felt for him.

She had _known_ in her gut that something about the whole situation was wrong, but after five years of trying to find out anything about the elves which could explain what she was seeing, she had had to concede grudging defeat. The house-elves were notoriously circumspect about the inner-workings of their society, and any attempts to try to work around the innate geas they had against speaking about it had only earned her scorn and ire, to the point where the elves in certain parts of the world knew her by face and name, and refused to speak to her at all. The resultant disheartened slump she had fallen into had been the first time she had had to admit to herself that there were limits to what she could do - oh, how arrogant she had been as a youth! - and it had been especially hard for Harry, she remembered with regret, because it had coincided with the news that Ginny had married Neville, and she had been too self-absorbed to be there for him.

But this - his last article - had been a gift for her. A century after she herself had made the attempt, that brilliant man had done it; he had talked to the elves, and found the way to soothe the long-cooled embers of her house-elf fixation.

With her heart swelling, she began to read.

. . .

Hermione stared at the sign on Harry’s door. Curly golden letters adorned the plaque, looking as shiny as they had been when she had had it commissioned, right after they had managed their first successful Animagus transformations. 

_Here be dragons._

Memories of frolicking in the warm, oceanic sun rose, unbidden, as did flashbacks of running with werewolves and racing down mountains. Her curiosity rarely ever lost a battle of the mind, but confronted once again with a room that she did not want to go into, with a hundred years’ worth of knick-knacks and recollections, and with too much of his comforting scent lingering… her curiosity was yielding quite quickly.

Yet, Hermione knew she would find the answers to her questions if she could just open the goddamn door.

Aloysius Mueller’s assessment of the article had been spot-on; it had been brilliant. It turned out that house-elves, much like humans (and wasn’t that an embarrassingly guilty thought for Hermione Granger, Advocate Extraordinaire, to be having?), had a society which was much more complex than she could ever have dreamed was possible. Social stratification existed, as did distinct cultures between elves of different nations, as did their own justice system, religion, mythology, ideology, and history. All under the noses of global wizardkind.

It hadn’t gone into detail on any of those aspects, meaning to ease readers in with innocuous mundanities such as the long-forgotten ways to address house-elves ( _vassal_ for an elf you were bound to, and _ally_ for an elf you were not, unless they were an Elder) and hints at how interaction between wizards and house-elves had historically begun ( _so the story goes: alliances have been forged on shakier grounds than the formal exchange of protection for employment, and an alliance was certainly what was proposed when the ancestors of today’s elves - the elves of Iberia - pledged their aid of the women and children of Rome, when their men went to fight the Carthaginians_ ). Harry hadn’t even begun to touch on the free elves or the corruption of magic he had mentioned. If the Conservatives - for she had no doubts that they were the ‘certain parties’ that Mueller had mentioned - felt threatened by this single, mostly harmless piece, she felt they must know more than they had ever let on, and she fairly burned with the need to _understand._ How had Harry found this all out?

An idea formed. Perhaps she didn’t _need_ to go through Harry’s things to find out more, if only she could go directly to the source. The elves had spurned her before, but something must have changed, for Harry to have been able to speak to them. Would the house-elf Elder come? Would he speak to her?

She sat herself in the kitchen, deliberating on making another cup of tea before she gave it a shot.

“Elder Algy,” she rasped through her clogged throat. 

Nothing happened.

“Mistress Hermione.”

Hermione startled badly; though she had always been Hermione in her head to Harry, it had been many years since she had heard another address her as such. That it came from a clearly elven voice when she had only ever been addressed as ‘Mistress Hermy’ in that same cadence was doubly startling. That she hadn’t heard a single crack of Apparition tripled it.

A house-elf was now standing in their- Hermione’s living room.

“You is calling, Mistress?”

The elf, like the others she had been acquainted with, stood at less than a metre tall. Immense blue eyes protruded out of a large, ovular head, startlingly disproportionate to its bony body. Her eyebrows climbed her forehead when she saw that its thin limbs were clad, not in the raggedy scraps favoured by the British elves or the plain tunics she had seen in others, but in what looked to be a flowing, ivory toga. The distinguished dress ran in sharp contrast to the elf’s ears, which were flapping in what seemed to be distress given the expression on its face.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat, wincing at the scratchy monosyllable. “Yes, I am. Are you Elder Algy?” The elf looked rather young.

The house-elf shook its head hard, skull tipping worryingly far from side to side. “Elder Algy be sending Pompey to Mistress when she is calling for the elves.”

“In that case, it is a pleasure to meet you, ally Pompey.”

The elf gasped at the address and his fingers began to comb some of the hair sprouting out of his ears. “Master Harry Potter’s article is being _published_ , Elder Algy is _doing it_ ,” he whispered to himself. Before Hermione could question him further, however, he roughly pinched himself, yelped, and then looked up at her with beseeching eyes. “Pompey is being waiting to hear from Good Mistress Hermione for _days_.” 

_How unexpected_. “Whatever for?”

“Master Harry Potter is needing to pass on,” the elf named Pompey said, rather insensitively. 

A beat of hurt silence passed between them, but she thought she did a remarkable job of keeping her face still. Her fingers tightened around the article folded in her hands. “Harry has already… passed on. He died a few days ago,” she said.

Pompey’s head-shaking was frenetic, his neck looking to be in serious danger of injury now. “Master Harry Potter is not passing on until we is doing the rites. Good Mistress Hermione is to be coming with Pompey to see Elder Algy. He is to be doing the rites. The _foo-ny_ rites.”

“House-elf funerary rites?” Nothing in the article had mentioned wizards needing any such thing. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said, not unkindly, “but I would definitely like to meet Elder Algy to ask him some questions, if you would be so gracious as to introduce me.”

“Mistress Hermione must understand before we is going to Elder Algy,” Pompey said, and there was a mulish edge to his tone.

Hermione’s brows furrowed, but she settled back into her chair, gazing at him. Given her earlier misadventures, it had been a while since she had spoken to a house-elf, and although she had never given up on their cause, it seemed that she had unwittingly fallen into the exact same condescension that others had. She straightened her back, and her voice ironed out as she gave him a short nod.

“Alright, ally Pompey. I read a little bit about house-elves in the interview that Harry did with Elder Algy, and I called the Elder as I was hoping to ask him some more questions as I currently-” _can’t bear to,_ “can’t access the rest of Harry’s notes. I didn’t know anything about Harry needing house-elf rites, and I honestly may never have called another elf at all if I hadn’t been so curious. Please explain.”

The elf’s eyes widened to the size of grapefruits at her. “Elder Algy be teaching Master Harry Potter about _serf magic._ Elder Algy is wanting to tell the Wizzy World, but serf magic secrets be secret to all except elves.” 

“And Harry needs house-elf funerary rites because Elder Algy taught him about this serf magic?” Hermione frowned, and Pompey’s voice lowered.

“We elves _cannot_ be speaking of the serf magic secrets to _anyone_ except to other elves. Even Elders be barred.”

Well, that cleared everything up. Not. Did this mean she wouldn’t be able to talk to Elder Algy at all? “Harry isn- wasn’t a house-elf.”

“No, but-” The elf broke off, bulbous eyes wide and ears flapping wildly with the no doubt foreign emotion of temerity. He continued in hushed tones. “But Master Harry Potter is also being _Potty._ Wizzy world’s _Potty_.”

Her first thought was less thought and more silence. 

Her second thought was that she was beginning to regret asking for an elf in the first place, as the conversation had quickly become bizarre.

Her third thought was: “That’s rather unsanitary.” It came out before she could stop herself, and then she laughed due to the sheer horrible quality of the joke. The elf looked unsure for the first time.

“I think I is needing Elder Algy now,” he began muttering to himself. Before she could say a word, he grabbed her arm and disappeared with a loud crack.

. . .

**August 2nd, 2130**

**The Fourth Elders’ Commune**

As it happened, Hermione did not attend the funerary rites. 

Pompey had been apologetic when he explained that house-elves were usually allowed - and required - to attend (ignoring her repeated questions about why that mattered, when she nor Harry were house-elves at all?). She tried to follow along with his explanations, but in her confusion all she could gather was that they - the other house-elves involved in whatever this was - had apparently opted to leave her out of the proceedings out of concern that she might cause some sort of magical disruption to the ceremony. Both curiosity and protectiveness led her to argue that she _should_ be there for whatever they might be doing to Harry, but when Pompey had realised that nothing he said calmed her, he resolved to say nothing at all, seemingly terrified of the thought that she would latch on to his arm or something he had said and follow him to where the rites were occurring. 

Instead, Pompey brought her to what looked like a small hunting lodge, which he reverently called the Fourth Elders’ Commune. It had, he said, been one of the abandoned homes of the pureblooded de la Maldi family, for whom Algy had been the Head Elf until the last of them succumbed to Vipertooth Virus, the cureless strain of Dragon Pox which had ravaged much of South America and Europe in the 2040s. Algy had been the primary caregiver for seven generations of de la Maldis, and when the last had died without an heir to pass his magic to, it had resulted in the dissipation of the bond between the family and their elves.

This _natural_ release of the bond, Pompey said pointedly, along with Algy being the fourth oldest living elf in the world, had qualified him for Elder status in the global house-elf community, a fact which Pompey seemed to be quite proud of. He, too, had served under the de la Maldis.

The hunting lodges Hermione had visited in her life had been ostentatious displays of wealth which, despite swapping cold marble for tempered wood, had still retained a sense of dignified aloofness. The Fourth Elders’ Commune was nothing like those. It fairly leaked of a warm, soft magic which curled around Hermione like a grandmother’s knitted blanket, and it was obviously well-lived in. It seemed that no abode of house-elves could possibly be anything less than cosy.

“Mistress Hermione will wait here until we is being finished,” Pompey said. “No elves is being here; we is returning after the rites.” Then he had promptly disappeared.

At first, Hermione had tried to read Harry’s article again, as it had been clutched in her hand when they had Apparated. When she had read it once more and nothing new was revealed, the urge to look around at the first place she had ever visited to be inhabited entirely by house-elves became too tempting to ignore, so she folded the parchment up again and tucked it into her robes, patting it absently.

It was a large, but fairly uncomplex single-storey building. There was one main room - that which she was currently in - which was high-ceilinged and massive, and lined on two walls with books of all kinds. Her eyes had fixated on them immediately, but when she peered at them more closely, they seemed to be in a runic alphabet which looked only passingly similar to Magical Futhark, the script she knew. “Bugger,” she had sworn, disappointedly. 

For that matter, she couldn’t read any of the written material she saw, so she turned her focus to the rest of the room. One of the two walls without the shelves of books consisted entirely of huge glass windows, allowing swathes of daylight to augment the magical warmth the building was steeped in. The other held a series of doors, leading to the rest of the lodge. A set of stairs went down into what was most likely a basement, and the centre of the room had been set aside for a large round meeting table and mahogany chairs backed with green velvet. It was more luxury than she had ever seen a house-elf partake in, and she itched to speak to Elder Algy and learned more.

The elves returned when the sky started to darken. By this time, Hermione had fallen asleep in one of the couches, collapsing under the exhaustion that the past few days’ lack of sleep had wrought. She woke slowly to blinking blue eyes and a gentle shake.

“Ally Pompey? Have the rites finished?”

“Yes, Hermy.” Pompey looked much more disquieted than he had when he had left her. “There is being a problem.”

She leapt up off the couch, jolting awake. “A problem? What’s wrong?” Pompey wrung his hands and looked past her. She followed his gaze to see another elf. 

He was no taller than Pompey, but his back seemed to have been made rigid rather than hunched in his old age. His shoulders were set back, his large head tilted in silent consideration, and his eyes were a piercing yellow reminiscent of lemons. He too wore a toga, this one under a heavy maroon cloak with some embellishment, and his hands were clasped behind his back. Unmistakably, this was Elder Algy.

“Hermy,” he addressed her. His voice was smoother and more refined than she had ever heard from an elf, a lengthened drawl which, an octave or two lower, might have better suited Severus Snape.

“Elder Algy,” she responded, inclining her head. “I can’t say that Harry’s told me all about you, but it was clear from his work that he considered you a friend. It’s good to meet you.”

Algy didn’t smile, but he returned her nod. “Potty was being a good friend to the elves. It is being a sad time, for the elves and Hermy both.” He paused, deliberating slowly before continuing, “The funerary rites is not being completed. Potty is not passing on.”

“What do you mean, Harry’s not passing on?”

“I is meaning that he is being stuck between the Now and the After.”

“You mean… he’s a _ghost_ ?” That was- that was the absolute _last_ thing that Harry James Potter deserved. Horror and dread began to fill her. “Is this the problem that ally Pompey was speaking of? What is the issue?”

“Hermy is needing to calm down,” Algy said sharply. “Potty is not being a ghost. We is being able to fix this. Hermy must sit, and we will explain. Can I be helping Hermy calm down?” Feeling her fingers begin to tremble, she nodded shakily. He clicked his fingers, and an immediate wave of serenity washed over her.

A deep breath left her, and she sunk back into the couch. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Pompey, watching the scene with wide eyes, silently took the couch beside her, and Algy came to stand in front of her. With her seated and him not, their eyes were level.

“We is being able to fix this,” he repeated firmly, eyes narrowed. “Is Hermy helping us?”

Deep breath. “Of course. Why are you calling me Hermy?” Now that her thoughts weren’t racing, the change from ‘Mistress Hermione’ had caught her attention.

“Pompey, explain to Hermy.” 

Under Algy’s watchful gaze, Pompey turned to her. Hesitating, he asked rather meekly, “Is Hermy remembering what Pompey is saying about Master Harry Potter?”

“About Harry being… Potty?”

He nodded emphatically. “Master Harry Potter is being Potty _._ Wizzy world’s Potty. And Good Mistress Hermione is being Hermy. Harry Potter’s Hermy.”

Seeing the disbelieving comprehension start to come through, Pompey began to babble in hurried explanation, sounding as garbled as if he were speaking to her underwater; although she couldn’t hear him entirely over the abrupt roaring of her stomach or the clamouring in her head, she still caught _serf magic_ and _Potty and Hermy_ and _bond is not being_ all _the same as that of the elves, but still, it is being just close enough_ (the deficiency, of course, being their lack of golf-ball eyes and oversized heads). She knew with a certainty that wasn’t entirely her own that he was speaking the truth.

Harry was - had been - in the service of the Wizarding World, and Hermione was - _had been_ , dammit - in the service of Harry; that was how it had always been. She had made peace with a similar observation made many years ago, when they had first departed Britain for fairer fortunes: _where Potter go, Granger doth follow._

Still, it was… it was ridiculous to think about. That can’t have been enough to forge this... _pseudo-elf_ bond. If not for the magic keeping her placid, she thought she might have tried Apparating out of there. A _bond_ ; she and Harry had unknowingly had a _bond._ If she was reading between the lines correctly, they seemed to be suggesting that this bond was what was stopping Harry from crossing over.

“I can’t have been the first to want to make a friend happy,” she gritted out.

“Hermy is correct,” Algy agreed. He didn’t say anything else; silence from a house-elf, Hermione thought, was decidedly unnerving.

“Why am I a pseudo-elf, then, and why do we have a-” she plucked the term from Pompey’s rushing commentary, “-serf magic bond?”

“You is not being a _pseudo-elf_ ,” Algy said, affronted. “Pompey is being incorrect if he is giving you that impression.” 

The other elf shrunk back a bit under the Elder’s sharp glance. Algy began to pace, only exacerbating the earlier comparison she had made to Professor Snape.

“You is having _serf magic_. We is not being able to speak of it to those who is not having it. You and Potty are not being the first mages having it, this is true. Mages before had the magic, and we house-elves is always giving them the rites as we must.” His bulging, lemon eyes cut to her. “But Hermy and Potty’s serf magic is _strong_. Time is compounding serf magic, as is intent, as is _sacrifice._ ”

Undesired fleeting thoughts of hordes of red-haired children flickered at the word. 

_Where Potter go, Granger doth follow._

She swallowed.

“Hermy and Potty’s bond is being strong enough to anchor Potty in the Now. Hermy is not needing to know anything else of serf magic but this: a mage’s Unbreakable Vow is breaking at death, but serf magic vows is _transcending_ death. A serf is promising to help and aid, and he must be getting protection in return. If the exchange of duties is being unfulfilled when the serf or the served is dying, the one who dies is hanging in the balance until the exchange is being completed.”

She opened her mouth, but the question would not form.

Algy seemed to know what remained unsaid.

“We is feeling it when we is doing the rites, Hermy,” he said solemnly. “Potty is still being in the balance. He is needing Hermy to finish his requests so he can be released from the bond.”

Hermione closed her eyes. Would Harry never get his peace? “But I don’t _know_ what he wants. Wanted.”

“We is fixing this, Hermy.” Algy’s declaration suddenly sounded far away.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw that she had been - silently - taken to another room. This one was small, with the same dark wood covering both the floor and the walls. The wooden bedhead of a small cot sat under a single, spotless window. Algy was gone, and only Pompey remained, fidgeting noiselessly as he waited for her to notice him.

“Ally Pompey, where are we?”

“We is being in a bedroom, Hermy.” He didn’t sound sarcastic. “It is time for Hermy to be sleeping.” With a snap of his fingers, she was now sitting in the bed.

“What? Sleep can wait. I need to figure out how to release Harry first!”

“The Fair Elf is being your guide, Hermy. She is showing Hermy what to do in Hermy’s dreams. Pompey is helping you to sleep.”

Hermione bristled for a bit, before tiredness made her subside. She had taken the rest of the day’s revelations in stride; what was one more? If nothing else, she would at least wake hopefully more rested than she had been in the past two days. Perhaps she would remember something useful from her most recent conversations with Harry; or perhaps she’d wake and find this all to be a ridiculous dream.

“If you put me to sleep, will I wake up?”

Rather than answering right away, Pompey deflated. “Pompey is not knowing if this is being a nap or an eternal sleep,” he admitted. “Only the Fair Elf is knowing, but she is always helping us complete our duties.”

If dying was what needed to happen to get Harry moving on, that wouldn’t be so bad. “Very well. Help me sleep, ally.” As Pompey’s fingers stretched out towards her, her eyes began to feel heavy and her worries started to dissipate. She wondered if this really was her death moment. A wry thought - _where Potter go, Granger_ really _doth follow -_ warmed her, and all was well.


	3. Testing a Theory

**3rd May, 2015**

**Sydney, Australia**

All was most certainly _not_ well.

Hermione first regained consciousness to the tune of _Don’t Stop Believin’_ in her ear.

A whispered hiss sounded somewhere from her right. “Shut it, Lee! This is Accounting, not High School Musical!”

“Just trying to liven things up, Bertolli,” came the equally whispered reply from right next to her, sounding cavalier. “You know Hawkins needs it.”

There was a pause for what might have been an eye roll, considering the intonation which followed. “If anyone needs to concentrate on this lecture, it’s you, Evan. I _know_ you were two points off failing the mid-semester exam.”

“Killjoy.” There was no further arguing, however, giving Hermione blessed silence in which she began to adjust to exactly where she was.

Her hearing was first, taking in the noise beyond the conversation that had just taken place nearby. There wasn’t much to take in. A mild drone emerged from somewhere in front of her (it was a man’s voice, she realised, after she heard, _Now, to write up a balance sheet, there are a few key things you need to remember..._ ) but the rest of the room was quiet aside from the constant and strange _click-clack_ sounds coming from all directions at once.

Her eyes adjusted next, and she realised that she was sitting in a darkened lecture hall. From her seat closest to the doors, she could see a large number of students facing the front, where the professor stood, gesturing to the large screen behind him. She had rarely ventured into new Muggle technology after the first few years after the war (despite her best efforts, she had never been able to get the technology to work well in a magical environment, and then the Muggles had kept advancing too quickly for her to catch up) but it was just like the cinema screens of her youth, despite projecting not a movie but some sort of presentation. Beside her, an amiable-looking youth tapped his fingers to a silent melody absently against something she _did_ actually recognise: a laptop. Further down the row of seats, another girl was typing speedily, and the _click-clacking_ from there was furious.

Where _was_ she?

Twenty minutes later, with the lecture wrapping up, she was no closer to finding out. Well, no, that wasn’t true; she knew _where_ she was. The presentation had ended pointedly on the details of the professor and class: _Professor Tom Hawkins, Unit Coordinator for_ _Accounting and Financial Management_ _(2015), University of Sydney._ What she didn’t know was what she was doing there.

When the lights in the hall turned back on and the students started staggering out, Hermione stood up. A notepad which had been lying on her lap, forgotten, fell to the floor, along with a couple of pens.

“Woah, Jean! All good?” 

Her face froze, but the amiable boy - Evan, from the whispered argument earlier - didn’t see it, already crouching down to pick up her pens and notepad for her. He shoved the pad back in her hands, and she saw, scrawled across the top of the first page, clear as day and in her own handwriting, no less: _Jean Wilkins._

What in the world?

With a jolt, the last thing she remembered came flooding back; Pompey had been there, in that little room with the cot at the Fourth Elders’ Commune. He had swept her into bed and put her to sleep - she must be lucid dreaming. 

Unless she was dead, and this was to her what King’s Cross Station had been to Harry. 

A random university in Australia, though? She only knew of it because it had been… where she had forged her parents’ dentistry qualifications… when she had created the muggles Monica and Wendell Wilkins.

Merlin, was this to be some sort of dream of penance? How did this relate to releasing Harry?

The Fair Elf would guide her, indeed. Perhaps she had to play along to find out.

Shaking her head slightly, she summoned up whatever energy she could. The result was a strained smile. “Thanks, Evan.” Her voice wavered on the unfamiliar name only slightly. “I’m not feeling so good, I think I’d better go home.”

Evan’s slanted eyes crinkled at her. “So we’re skipping class today?”

“Um- no, I really feel-”

“Sounds good to me! After a Hawkins lecture, day drinking’s the lesser of any evils. I’ll get Sean to cover for us for our two o’clock, man’s a legend.” Something must have shown on her face, because he started to look concerned. “Or maybe you should actually go home. Come on, I’ll walk you. I wanted to talk to you about something, anyway.”

She wanted to say no, but no strange instincts or bouts of omniscience were kicking in, and she had no idea where to go from here. She just needed to be alone and to _think_. With the barest hesitation, she nodded.

Home wasn’t as far as she thought it might have been. The university’s bustling campus was split along the middle by a city road, at this hour hectic with traffic. They walked along the noisy road in silence, turning into the quieter side streets once. After ten minutes of trying not to seem like she had no clue where she was, and tamping down on the urge to gawk at the unknown surroundings like an unwitting tourist, they finally came upon an ugly red brick apartment building. Seeing her face, Evan laughed. “Gotta love student accommodation, am I right?”

He had been holding her bag for her - she hadn’t even realised she’d had one - and began fishing around without another word when she made no move to retrieve it. Pulling out a couple of keys on a metal ring, he pushed the larger one into the building’s front door lock and shouldered it open. Hermione followed him up some stairs to a plain wooden door on the first floor, the number ‘12’ declared in numbers that might have once been painted gold. Flecks where the faded sepia paint had been chipped off littered the door’s entire facade, and strange smells wafted out from number 10 and number 13. It all looked miserable.

“Well, this is me,” Hermione said with as much nonchalance as she could muster, flicking her eyes to the door which did not feel familiar at all.

“Yeah,” Evan said, running a hand through his hair nervously. With a different face and different hair, the gesture didn’t hit her quite as hard as it could have, but she still felt the need to turn away abruptly. “I- I’ll see you in class tomorrow, then, yeah?”

She hummed in what could have maybe passed for acquiescence.

“Great. Erm… I’ll just talk to you… about that thing… when you’re feeling better, then.” He was already hurtling down the hall, flashing her a parting smile and wave, before she remembered that yes, he had actually wanted to speak to her about something, and had walked home with her to do so. Believing that she was in a dream didn’t stop her from feeling bad about it, but she wasn’t a teenager anymore, so she shrugged it off and used the smaller of the keys she had. entering the flat and, though she didn’t know it yet, fourteen days of Existential Crisis.

. . .

The first problem was that she didn’t _feel_ like she was dreaming. In fact, she felt livelier than she had in over a century. Girlish vitality had returned to old bones, and when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see lined skin and grey hair. She saw a sunny Australian tan and blonde, attractively unruly waves. It wasn’t a familiar face that gazed back at her; nothing in it screamed Hermione Granger. A rummage around the shoebox-sized flat had turned up some old papers, and she found out her name was Hermione Jean Wilkins; born September 19th, 1997, and the daughter of Ben and Mary Wilkins. Irrational despondency filled her when it hadn’t been Monica or Wendell’s names listed where her parents should be.

The second problem was that she was extremely, utterly muggle. She felt alive, yes, but the comforting hum she had always felt in her fingertips was completely silent. Her wand wasn’t in that bag, or in her bedroom, or anywhere in the apartment at all, and no amount of the wandless casting she had so worked on in the comfort of Potter’s Grange would draw it out. The devastating idea that this was what the Fair Elf was trying to tell her came to her more than once; perhaps she wasn’t meant to have been magical, after all. Would Harry have been happier then? What would have changed?

Hermione knew, in her heart of hearts, that without her Harry would have managed to win the war. He was brilliant, after all; it might have taken a little longer for him to believe it, but he would have done it in the end. If she hadn’t been there with him, he would have stayed in Britain afterwards, and their close cure for lycanthropy would have been discovered, as well, even if that too was delayed a bit. Aside from his research, he would have had his family with Ginny; little Marius Longbottom might have been James Sirius Potter instead, as he had once told her he had wanted to name a son.

It had been enough to keep her in bed for a whole sulking day, before she finally came to her senses and realised that Harry would never have been bloody selfish enough to wish she were a muggle. He was the only one to share in, and understand, that strange relationship she had with magic and the Wizarding World, and to turn her away from it was a cruelty that had no place in Harry’s character. 

After she had gotten over her fit of childishness, she turned her attention to finding out everything else she could about her current situation and what she could do to get out of it, but after two weeks, Hermione still didn’t know if she was in some sort of fever dream, hallucinating, or dead, and each morning started off with the sinking feeling of dread. 

Two weeks! Fourteen days! Who spent that long in a lucid dream? She certainly felt real. There had to be something at play here, and she needed to get herself together and start putting together some theories. After that, she needed to test them out.

As she slowly pulled herself together, she observed distractedly that that boy from class - Evan - had obviously been some sort of close friend to Jean Wilkins, because he had shown up knocking on her door after a day and a half of her not showing up to class or answering his text messages.

(The mobile phone she had found on her bedside table had been making strange bell sounds near constantly, and it was nothing like the one she had owned briefly, early on in the new millennium. How in Merlin’s name was one to use it? What was a passcode? Why was the thing useless without one? And why was that boy sending her messages like _Are you still worrying about the midsem exam? Come on, Jean, chill!_ in the middle of the mounting issues she was having with her existence? Chill _what_?)

She had ignored it all, sitting at the miserable dining-come-study table in Jean Wilkins’ miserable flat for those two weeks near constantly, trying to figure out what had gone wrong when Pompey had put her to sleep. She was not dead - at least, she didn’t think she was, but that was a theory she was willing to test out - so it was possible this really was, as she had thought before, all a dream. An extremely long, disturbing, and _vivid_ dream, but a dream nonetheless.

What the Fair Elf was trying to tell her with all of this, she had no clue.

On the day she decided to test out Theory #1: This Is A Fucking Nightmare, Evan had the unfortunate luck of being just outside her door, about to try coaxing her out once again. When she came out, his face brightened then fell in a comically short period of time, taking in the fact that she was still wearing the clothes he had last seen her in, the lank, greasy hair, and the band aid on her exposed thigh. That morning, she had woken up, gone to the bathroom, gritted her teeth, dragged the sharp point of a pair of scissors down the fleshy part of her thigh, slapped a band aid on it, and decided that she was going crazy.

“Excuse me,” she said, resolutely, gesturing for him to move out of her doorway.

“Jean, are you okay? Look, I know the midsem sucked arse, but you can’t beat yourself up over it like this! Come on, I brought tikka masala, let’s go in and-”

That should have been her first clue; people did what you wanted them to when you were lucid dreaming. Evan, on the other hand, was not moving, and instead was brandishing his bag of chicken curry as if it were a wand.

“Move it, kid,” she bit out, and before he could say anything, he had been shoved aside. His mouth opened wordlessly.

“Hey! Jean, what are you…? Jean…?”

His nonsensical beseeching followed her as she climbed down the stairs and stalked through the ground floor with a determined glint in her eyes, flinging the building’s front door open. Standing on the kerb, she looked both ways, waiting. When a car finally turned the corner into her street, she steeled her back and timed it carefully. _Here we go, 1, 2, 3_ -

Evan seemed to sense what she was about to do, because he tried to grab her arm, but she twisted away from him with reflexes she hadn’t had in fifty years, running onto the road.

“ _Jean!_ ”

Her dreams never continued when she died in them, she knew. The car was trying to put the breaks on, but it was too late.

She felt cold metal touch her in the millionth of a millisecond of impact, before a prickling sensation began in her toes and raced up her body, burning behind her eyes for a flash of time before it _tugged_.

. . .

**2nd May, 1999**

**Ministry of Magic, London**

When she woke again, it wasn’t to the crooning of a teenager, but to the cacophony of applause.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, this isn’t the time to start counting hippogriff feathers!” Ron Weasley’s voice bellowed from somewhere amongst the audience. “Go and get that bloody badge!” A general chuckle sounded, as well as a disapproving “ _R_ _onald Weasley!_ ” from what could only be his mother.

She was in a crammed auditorium, richly decorated with the British Ministry’s seal plastered everywhere. In front of her, a platform had been erected, and a short row of smiling twenty-somethings were standing in scarlet-robes, facing the crowd with pride etched on their faces. A banner had been placed behind them, proclaiming this the _Trainee Graduation, ‘99._

“Go on then, Granger,” a pink-haired girl, also in red robes, smirked, nodding her head towards the small set of stairs that led up to the platform. “If you dawdle any longer, I might have to add another resume credential under ‘Youngest Auror to Graduate Ever,’ that being ‘Even Slower Than Tonks!’”

Her movements were mechanical as she swallowed thickly and followed directions, thinking furiously. The last thing she remembered was being hit by a car, but she didn’t _feel_ injured. Had it all been a dream? Was _this_ another dream, too?

The familiar lion of the Aurors, Rufus Scrimgeous himself, gave her a serious nod as he pinned an Auror’s badge to her formal robes, which like the others were scarlet. He turned her towards the audience, and when she made to move and stand with the rest of those on the stage, he clamped a hand down on her shoulder. Quiet descended as they waited to hear what the Head of the Auror Office had to say.

“This student is one of the finest to walk through these halls. Having tested out of her NEWTs at 16, there was no doubt that she had the skill to train as an Auror, but over the past two three, she has demonstrated time and time again that in addition to skill, she also counts as her virtues bravery, ambition, and sheer determination. I am proud to consider myself one of her mentors, for I know that she will bring great honour to her Ministry. Please applaud once more for the dux of the class of 1999, Miss Hermione Granger.”

. . .

Theory #2: I’m a Bloody Time Traveller was her top-running suspicion at the moment. Of course, none of this had ever happened, but in her long years of research she had heard whispers of methods of time travel which, unlike the Time Turner, allowed one to _change_ time, rather than fulfil it. She had never seen any solid evidence for it, but with all the untold secrets that the house-elves held, it was _possible_ that this might be one of them. If this was time travel, what was the reason?

The graduation party had been a rush of bodies, pats on the back, and congratulations. As soon as the ceremony had finished, Ron - glowing and looking so _innocent_ \- had picked her up in his arms, spun her around twice, and given her a resounding kiss, to the wolf-whistles of the Weasley twins and Ginny. 

“You’re fucking brilliant!” he had beamed, ignoring his mother’s angry scolding. “My brilliant, brilliant girl!”

“Ron,” she had gasped, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed, and the familiarity of such a moment - one she had seen too many times when she had gone to sleep, especially after she had first left him - made her discard her time travel theory immediately. 

_Of course this isn’t time travel, it’s a dream. Wish fulfillment, then?_

A sense of unreasonable disappointment wanted to crush her, but she buried it firmly; what had she been expecting? The University of Sydney had been a dream, and so was this. Biting her lip, she looked around, not seeing a familiar head of messy black hair, and asked, “Where’s Harry?”

Ron slung an arm around her, peering around at those who were walking by and puffing his chest, pulling her closer. “Who’s Harry?” he asked indifferently, eyes on the crowd.

“Harry? Harry Potter? Vanquisher of Voldemort?”

Someone she recognised as Seamus Finnegan walked past, stopping shortly to thump Ron on the back and congratulate her. Ron grinned at him, and when he was gone, he said, “That old geezer on the Wizengamot? What do you want him for? Whose Voldemort?” His eyes slid to hers, and he twirled one of her curls around his finger. It shone in the light. “Don’t think old Potter’s got much of a taste for the Auror department, everyone knows that the Potters spend all their time shut up experimenting with mad potions; although I’ll admit their Sleekeazy’s is right handy.”

Scores of old classmates came by in the next ten minutes; it seemed that much of their Hogwarts cohort had come to congratulate her. There were faces she expected, faces she was surprised to see, and faces she was downright bemused by. Her theory of wish fulfilment started crumbling when platinum-blonde hair and smart, silver robes came strolling towards her. She’d certainly never yearned to be greeted by a pleasant-looking Draco Malfoy, kissing her hand and saying, “Knew you could do it, Granger. Left us in the dust!” Ron didn’t even seem bothered.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Hermione muttered. Ron made a sound of agreement, kissed her cheek, and went to talk to a much humbler-looking Lavender Brown, leaving her to find them herself. Had he always been so thoughtless? Perhaps a century of distance had softened her judgement of him.

When she found it, the bathroom was blessedly empty, and the first thing she did was stare at herself in the mirror. After two weeks of blondness and a tan, it was a relief to see that she looked the same as she had in her youth. Well, almost the same, anyway. When she had been nineteen the first time, she had been recovering from starvation and a year on the run, while she was obviously well-fed and without a care in the world here. Voldemort apparently didn’t even _exist_.

She locked herself in one of the cubicles and sat on a closed toilet lid, pensive. This seemed more like it fit along what the house-elves had told her. Harry had had a request of her that she was meant to fulfil; was it to see what life would have been like if Harry wasn’t born, where Voldemort didn’t exist? It certainly seemed like the kind of thing he would do in a moment of dejection; no amount of years had ever dislodged the chip of self-loathing that marred his soul. 

Her thigh began to itch, and as Hermione reached down to scratch it, her fingers brushed against plastic. She paused, then pulled her skirt up slowly. 

Pasted over the deliberate cut she had made to see if it would transfer over once she died or woke up from her previous dream was the band aid, still there. She peeled it off, and saw that the shallow wound underneath was newly scabbed over. Biting her lip, a habit which she had dismissed as she got older but which felt appropriate in this young body, she waved her hand over it and watched as it closed up, leaving behind smooth skin.

It felt good to have magic again.

The band aid changed the course of her thoughts. Thinking back to all that had happened in the past hour, it was safe to say that she had not been jaunting through time. Too much was different for that to be the case, even if it was the strange ‘fix-it’ type and not the ‘circular-time’ kind. Theory #2 was a dud.

Theory #1 was still possible, however. This could _still_ be an over-elaborate dream; after all, now that she was not as panicked by the situation as she had been as Jean Wilkins, she thought she might have had dreams before where large amounts of time had seemingly passed in what was actually a single night’s sleep. The cut on her thigh, though - it was such a small, insignificant detail that shouldn’t have transferred over to such a distinct dream setting.

If it hadn’t been a dream, she felt truly sorry for Evan Lee, who had seen his friend jump in front of a car, possessed by the spirit of an old lady who for the first time in over a century had no clue what she was doing.

She needed to get out of the Ministry and learn some more. She needed to get some books. If this was truly wish-fulfilment, surely she’d be able to find any book she might wish for.

. . .

Sadly, she’d not been able to find all the books she thought might help her predicament. Books on time travel (which she wanted to check one more time, just to be on the safe side) turned up nothing, and there was even less to be found about peculiarly life-like dreams.

After the first weekend of fruitless book research, she decided to see if she could find herself some elves. Packing her wand, some clothes, some money, and Harry’s article (which she had found squashed in the pocket of the Auror robes she had worn) into a bag she had extension-charmed, she slipped out of the flat she shared with Ron in Diagon Alley in the dead of night, and didn’t look back. If she felt a shred of guilt for leaving Ronald Weasley a second time, it didn’t matter; she was either in a dream, or this wasn’t _her_ Ron.

The problem was actually finding elves. The ones she had known well - Dobby, Winky and the Hogwarts elves - were all at Hogwarts, and she wasn’t going to go there. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, and she had no valid reason for trying to get back in when she had apparently graduated three years ago. Kreacher was a no-go for obvious reasons, and her memory of the elves she met on her travels was hazy. She wanted to find Pompey and Algy, but she had no idea where the Fourth Elders’ Commune had actually been.

Her first destination was New Zealand, and the Apparition route through Europe, Asia and then Oceania was as tiring as ever. She was hoping to find Potter’s Grange. Before it had been theirs, it had been in the possession of the New Zealand ministry, having been long abandoned, but she knew for a fact that it had existed in 1999. After a night at an inn in Auckland, she set off the next morning to find it. 

The little cottage on the cliff looked exactly the same as it had when they had first bought it. Originally, it had been a one-storey, two-bedroom thing, but they hadn’t minded the need for renovations. The most important thing had been that it was extremely secluded, and that it had come with heavy security wards - wards that were still, at this time, keyed to the New Zealand ministry.

She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of that detail before. It wasn’t a major set-back, but it still annoyed her. She hadn’t needed to get into the building, though; she just knew that Pompey had been able to hear her from here. He had been living with Algy, so if he had been able to hear her, Potter’s Grange must be within elf-hearing distance of the Commune. She wasn’t sure if Algy was even an Elder yet, or if they were living at the lodge, but just as she had done the day she had met Pompey, she took a chance and said, “Ally Pompey.”

There was a _crack_. Giant blue eyes eyed her curiously. “Who is you being? How is you knowing the proper elves’ address?”

She was conflicted. On one hand, it had _worked_ and Pompey was here, looking exactly as he had when she had met him. On the other hand, he had not an inkling of who she was.

“Are you sure you don’t remember me, ally Pompey?” she tried, heart sinking. “Me, Hermy?”

He looked suspicious, but also nervous, fingers twisting in his toga. “Pompey is not knowing you, Miss.” He faltered, then whispered, “Miss is feeling like elf magic. Miss is feeling like the _Fair Elf_!”

Relief flooded her bones. This… this she could work with. “Yes, I know about serf magic,” she nodded shortly. “I have reason to think I’ve been caught in a bond gone wrong. Can you take me to Elder Algy?”

. . .

Elder Algy, looking younger than she had when she had seen him last, had known at once that she was telling the truth; there was no way she could know even the small amount that she did unless an elf had told her, and for that to happen, she had needed to be exempt from their geas. However, he had no way of helping her without having known Harry himself, and Harry James Potter did not exist.

The elves let her stay, and she got the feeling she had been granted a huge honour. Aside from Pompey and Algy, there were three other elves who she hadn’t seen last time she was here. All of them had been part of the de la Maldi household. Patsy, the humourless main cook with a temper to rival that of Mrs. Weasley, was Pompey’s mother and Algy’s daughter. Pompey had a brother, Ptolemy, who was the genial elf in charge of maintaining the grounds around the lodge. The last elf resident of the Commune was Hannibal Barca, an odd elf who did not do much of anything, spoke not a word at all, and seemed to be not much liked by anyone.

Other than Hannibal Barca (“Call him Barcky, Miss Hermione, there is not being any proper elf names like _Hannibal Barca_ !”), they were all eager to help her find out what had happened to her, and while they were not able to answer her questions about all the topics Harry had hinted at in his article given that she was not a pseudo-elf _here_ , they were willing to let her take a crack at their books. They couldn’t even help her with the language, but Hermione had been good enough at Magical Futhark to try her hand at translating using that as a base, given that some runes seemed to transfer between the Magical and the Elvish. It was slow-going, and she hadn’t gotten very far, but if the secret to understanding what was happening to her was in one of these books, all she could be was patient. It was the only lead she had.

An added benefit of being at the Commune was that it was protected and hidden entirely from wizards unless they were literally pulled within the wards by hand. She had realised this the one time she had tried to go to Wizarding Auckland, where she had been attacked by a dozen owls trying to drop her letters. She hadn’t needed to open one to know what they were all about; not when one of them, a Howler, had gone off in the middle of the street, blustering in Scrimgeour’s voice: “ _-a poor showing, a very poor showing indeed, to not show up after we’ve just inducted you and put you through three years of scholarships-_ ”

She hadn’t tried to leave the Commune again.

After three months, she had become quite friendly with the elves - Pompey in particular, who seemed to be a bundle of chaotic but eager-to-please energy - but she was also no closer to finding any answers. Whenever she muttered something about the Fair Elf, whichever elf was in her vicinity (aside from Hannibal Barca) would respond: “The Fair Elf is knowing what is being best for Miss Hermione.” 

Despite this lack of progress, however, she had found it harder and harder to accept that she was in a dream. She did have another theory forming, though, one which hinged on a term she had heard in the muggle world rather than the magical: _multiverse._

Unfortunately, the morning she resolved to ask Elder Algy if there was _anything_ he knew about such a thing that he could tell her, she woke up with a prickling feeling in her toes. Flexing her feet to try and rid herself of it did nothing; instead, it began to climb the rest of her body, before coalescing in a single point, right in the middle of her forehead. She gasped, and then she was once again being tugged into nothingness.

. . .

**12th July, 1990**

**Gilborne Grove**

The third time she woke, it was to some harridan bellowing, “Neville Alistair Longbottom, what in _Merlin’s_ name are you doing?”

Having decided that she wasn’t A) dreaming or B) time travelling didn’t make her next landing any more pleasant. The disorientation winded her almost completely, and she felt her knees buckle. Belatedly, she realised from the scratch of her throat that the outraged screech had come from _her_.

“Grandma Hermione!” came a shout, and she looked up from her staggering to see a young boy jump from a tree branch at least four metres up. Instead of crumpling at the tree’s base, he _bounced once_ , got to his feet, and began racing down the perfectly manicured green towards her. “Gran! Are you okay? Sorry, sorry-”

“What’s happening out here?” A third voice joined the fray, pleasantness quickly switching to alarm. “Mum!”

Sturdy arms steadied her, and held her up for a few seconds.

“Are you okay, mum?” the young woman said, eyes wide with concern. Hermione could only gape in shock.

Alice Longbottom looked exactly as she had in the photo of the first Order of the Phoenix that Harry had shown her: young, happy, and _alive_. If anything was to lend credence to the theory which was now front-and-centre in her mind - Theory #3: Nevermind, I Must Be Alice in Bloody Wonderland AKA a Parallel Universe - it was this.

A hissing breath escaped her but then, out of nowhere, she heard her father’s chuckling voice as he mimicked an actor out of a movie the Grangers had watched together before magic had turned their lives topsy-turvy: _Darling, this ain’t your first rodeo!_

A quick regrouping summed up the situation nicely: she had now spent three and a half months living completely alternate lives. This was Alternate Life Number Three, and she didn’t know what she was doing here, how she had come here, or when she would be thrown out. She still didn’t know what the elves from her original life had wanted her to figure out, and at this point, she wasn’t even sure it mattered, or if anything she did here would affect Harry’s situation _there_ . However, right in front of her, she had Alice Longbottom alive, and calling her mum. Neville Longbottom was almost in tears, and he was calling her _Gran_.

She straightened.

“I’m sorry, Gran, really,” the boy, who looked to be of Hogwarts-invitation age, began to sob, clutching tightly to her arm. “The Wiggentree had a bowtruckle, and I just wanted to say hullo-”

“Neville,” Alice scolded him, “I’ve told you _so_ many times, that’s dangerous!”

“But mum, they _like_ me!” Neville’s bottom lip jutted out, and he turned beseeching eyes on Hermione. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Gran, I promise.”

Dear Neville. Dear, dear Neville.

She blinked quickly, trying to ward off the impending wateriness. “I’m sure the bowtruckle was quite disappointed that you had to leave him on account of your silly, old grandma. Dry those eyes now, Neville, and finish your greeting. Make sure you tell him I said he’d better behave around you!”

The sniffling trailed off, and Neville began to wipe his tears with the back of his robe sleeve before freezing, seeming to think for a moment, grabbing a handkerchief out of his pocket, and dabbing lightly at his eyes instead. He gave her a watery smile.

“Really, Gran?”

“Yes, Neville.”

Like a switch, his high spirits were instantly restored, and he shoved the handkerchief into his pocket. He had already run back five steps before he paused and turned back.

“But- you’re quite alright, aren’t you, Gran?”

“ _Yes_ , child. Go on.”

The smile was beatific, now, and then he was sprinting back down the grove to the Wiggentree. When Hermione turned back to Alice, fondness on her lips, the young woman gave her a look of practiced exasperation.

“Must you always play the good Auror to my bad one, mum?”

“You know it won’t do a thing to him; Neville would hurt _himself_ before he would damage a tree.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Unlike Neville, Alice was unchartered territory, and Hermione decided the best course of action in this case would be to agree.

“Yes, of course, Alice.”

Instead of being appeased, Alice only huffed, bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and looped their arms together. “Better be careful, mum. Between you spoiling him at every turn and Augusta trying to turn him into a mini Frank, I’ve half a mind to pack him up and move him to China!”

. . .

Over the next six months, Hermione learned many interesting things about the life of Hermione Gilborne, nee Kinross.

The most dramatic revelation had been that Hermione Kinross and Augusta Burke had had a rivalry of legendary proportions when they had been at school, and when their two children had decided to get married, a most scandalous fight had broken out. It had not even been until the current year that the two women had deigned to exist in the same room for a couple of weekends in the lead up to Neville’s first year. Alice and Frank, of course, thought it was all a lark, and like the dutiful children they were, had shuttled Neville between Gilborne Grove and Longbottom Manor on alternating weekends until the old biddies had gotten over themselves. 

Hermione still didn’t find being in the same room as Augusta Longbottom even remotely pleasant, but she was - technically - older than the other woman if you counted her original years, and she mostly settled for doting on Neville even more in her presence, and acknowledging her thinly-veiled barbs with infuriating indifference - in that order. When the whole family was in a room together, it was clear that Neville preferred his maternal grandmother, and Hermione thought her smugness was quite justified. _Her_ Neville had grown up to be a remarkable, powerful man in spite of his grandmother’s raising, not because of it.

When Neville went off to Hogwarts and was sorted into Gryffindor, he had written her promptly. She had been very eager to hear what he had to say, for many reasons. First, she was simply so _fond_ of the boy. It was different seeing him through the eyes of a beloved guardian rather than a peer, and even more so because here he had grown up in a loving home with both parents intact. 

Second, it had become quite lonely, living on this stately land by herself. There were no elves, and Alice’s father had died many years ago. Neville’s parents had their own place at Longbottom Lodge, and though they visited when they could, they were busy, successful Aurors. Her days were instead filled with working through the Gilbornes’ considerable library on whatever topics caught her fancy, writing to Neville, and taking tea with unfamiliar friends when her ingrained hermit-like tendencies became too strong.

The third reason was that she wanted to know if a girl named Hermione Granger had been sorted there.

She hadn’t needed to ask; she had come to realise over the past few weeks that Neville Longbottom and Grandma Hermione were extremely close, and he would never overlook a mention of a girl in his cohort sharing her name if it happened. However, Neville’s letters were remarkably free of any mentions of bushy-haired muggleborns. Instead, he wrote about his best friend Ron Weasley, how funny it was when their respective pets Trevor the Toad and Rasputin the Rat would escape their clutches and run through the castle, and how having his own wand was all sorts of amazing ( _Gran, can you believe it? I was second in the class to get my Wingardium Leviosa down, after Draco!_ ).

There were no mentions of any Harry Potters, either.

By the time she realised that she had settled into a routine, and that it had been six months already since she had arrived, she found that the idea of leaving this life greatly disturbed her. Aside from Neville, she had also become quite attached to Alice and Frank Longbottom and their friends, the childless James and Lily Potter who sometimes joined them for tea. As such, she hadn’t tried to make contact with any house-elves this time to continue her research, and she started to feel incredibly guilty.

What was _wrong_ with her? A year ago, when she had woken up as Jean Wilkins, she thought that she might have been in a dream to teach her penance, but now she saw that this life was much more suited to such a purpose. Their lives of reclusion had robbed both Harry and Hermione of the chance to feel this - grandchildren, a large family, acceptance. She loved being a grandmother here, and though she had never thought so in her original life, she thought now that motherhood would also have suited her extremely well.

She brushed frustrated tears aside. Is this what the Fair Elf had been trying to tell her? That Harry wanted her to regret having stayed with him? How could she tell if Harry was still hanging in the balance? She refused to make herself feel such a thing as regret until she knew that was what her old friend had wanted.

“Merlin,” she muttered. “I need a drink.” Pattering over to the fireplace, she threw some powder in and called, “Longbottom Lodge!”

Alice answered her call after a few minutes. “Mum? Has something happened?”

“No, dear,” Hermione said tiredly. “I’d just like some company, if you’d be so kind. Do you have any time?”

“Of course, mum,” Alice said graciously, ushering her through the Floo. “I’ve always said that that place is much too big for one woman. It was too big when Alistair and I lived there with you and Daddy, too.” The Auror settled her into a chair, and looking into her eyes, gave a decisive nod. “Firewhisky?”

“You read me so well, Alice,” Hermione sighed. “Perhaps the Gobblerum instead, though.”

“I’ve been telling you for years that you should be here, living with us,” Alice said over her shoulder as she went over to the glass cabinet with the tumblers and liquor.

“Dear Gussie wouldn’t stand for my favoured status being so boldly declared,” Hermione snorted. Her daughter laughed.

“Well, what’s got you feeling so gloomy, then?”

“I-”

Hermione cut off, her eyes growing as she began to feel a prickling sensation in her toes - one she had simultaneously been dreading and trying to forget. It had, after all, been a half year since she had last felt it.

“Mum, what’s wrong?”

It raced up her torso and her arms, and she inhaled sharply. _No, no, no_. 

“Alice-”

Then there was the tug.

“Bloody-“

. . .

**14th November, 1965**

**Borage Hill, London**

When Hermione woke for the fourth time, she was feeling decidedly hopeless, tired, and - frankly - _pissed_.

“-buggering fuck.”

She breathed out deeply, eyes shut.

The syllables fell very clumsily out of her mouth, but that didn’t stop the gasps that sounded above her.

However, instead of an admonition directed at her, she heard: “Vernon! Just _what_ language have you been using in this house?”

A loud _thwack_ sounded, followed closely by a yelp. “Ow! Go _away_ , Marge! It wasn’t me, I don’t even know those words!” A single note of contrition was carefully buried under a large amount of juvenile amusement, and though Hermione obviously knew it hadn’t been him to teach her the curse words, it was clear that he was, in fact, quite familiar with them. The other voice - ‘Marge’ - knew it, too.

“Don’t,” she snorted, unimpressed. “I’ve seen who you play with, Vern, and I went to primary with Barney’s older brother, besides. I know who you’re learning from. I don’t care if you know those words, Vern, but _don’t_ use them around here. If Mr. Dursley heard Hermione...”

“Stan, stan, the bogey man,” ‘Vern’ muttered.

The two young voices fell into a heavy silence.

 _Merlin_.

Her heart was aching, and she was suddenly finding it quite hard to breathe. _Neville. Alice. Frank._

She didn’t want to open her eyes. If she did, she knew she wouldn’t be at Longbottom Lodge anymore, but she _wanted_ to be there, dammit. Her stomach churned, and her throat tightened. When she opened her mouth, intending to take in a steady gulp of air, what escaped instead was a broken sob.

“Oh Hermione,” Marge sighed, and suddenly she was being engulfed in skinny, bony arms. 

“Don’t-”

“Sit still,” Marge said sharply, holding her with a strong, heavy grip which didn’t seem to match her voice. She softened. “I’m not angry at _you_ , little rosie. Vernon, on the other hand…” 

Hermione ignored her. She pushed a fist to her mouth, not wanting to open her eyes or allow another desperate sound to escape her. _Neville. Alice. Frank._ Her body was shuddering, but as the minutes ticked by, she began to control her own body once more.

“ _Hermione._ ” Marge’s voice was still sharp, and a finger was now tapping her on her chin. “Don’t cry, alright? Come on, open your eyes and I’ll get you a tissue to wipe them, okay?”

The arms released her from their iron grip, and she finally dared to confront what was to be her new reality, for however long it lasted.

She was lying on a sofa. There were two children in the old-fashioned living room with her: one, a boy who looked to be around the same age as Neville had been, was leaning lazily against an expensive-looking coffee table, spread haphazardly with what could only be schoolwork, while a teenage girl was reaching into a tissue box on the mantle, scrunching up a whole bundle of them in her fist.

“Here, wipe your tears,” the girl Marge said, seeing Hermione’s eyes flutter open. She knelt in front of her, holding the tissues out. 

Hermione took them without a word, dabbing at her eyes until they were dry, then blowing her nose.

Marge’s grey gimlet eyes fixed on her in a way that made it clear she was used to obedience, but they were also softer than they might have been. “Cheeky girl. Like I said, I’m not angry, but you mustn’t ever say those words again, Hermione. They’re very rude.” A finger absently climbed up her shoulder to tug at one of the short tawny tendrils of her chin-length bob, the dictation sounding out of place coming from a girl who looked to be in her early teens.

With Marge’s eyes turned away from him, the boy - this must be the admonished Vern - winked at Hermione, but didn’t say anything. Hermione didn’t either, not trusting whatever would come out of her mouth next.

Marge seemed to take her silence for temper, because she sighed and got to her feet gawkily, patting down what looked to be a long school skirt with a clumsy hand. “Come on, let’s get you a glass of milk. Mum won’t be happy if she comes home only to find that her little rose is grumpy, will she? Nor will your dad.”

None of Marge’s reprimand was registering with Hermione, however, because Hermione had just caught sight of her arms, reaching towards the other girl of their own volition. With an experienced sweep, Neville was pushed out of her mind, and her eyes began to hysterically take in what she could see of herself.

Small, delicate hands.

Tiny feet, clad in white ruffle socks and yellow Mary Janes.

A bonafide leap off of the sofa and to the mirror in the corner of the room reflected a young child, no older than four or five, in a yellow box dress, gingerbread-coloured hair pulled into two pigtails. Hermione felt her eyes widen, and the child’s eyes bulged. Her jaw fell in a small ‘o’ of horror, and the child’s jaw did the same.

An unholy shriek sounded through 26 Acton Avenue, Borage Hill, London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a monstrously huge chapter. Unfortunately I didn’t feel right breaking it up so you get it all in one massive chunk. I won’t kid myself that any of this story’s premise is original, but I would like to know what you think. I’m glad to have all the background out of the way - onwards and upwards!
> 
> I’ll also give a blanket warning now that there may be things coming which differ from canon, and I’m not going to bother to disclaim every single thing; I’m not sticking to a lot of things as this is time travel in a parallel universe, not the canonverse. If something particularly bothers you, there might be a reason for it and it might even be something I can tell you, so feel free to ask.


	4. Hermione Jean Dursley

**29th June, 1976**

**Borage Hill, London**

_To Hermione,_

_I know that school’s only just let out, but two things have happened that require your attention._

_The first is that the son of my mother’s cousin, Henry Fawley, will be joining Hogwarts soon. I know you care for no one else at school except for me_ \- “Not even you,” Hermione grouched when she read that - _but I think you’ll find him quite interesting. I’ve attached a clipping from Sunday’s Evening Prophet; his father’s a member on the Council of Magical Law and his mother hosts most of the Ministry’s balls, so they’ve gotten him quite a good bit of press for his supposed_ _prodigal_ _talents in Potions and Transfiguration. He’s just won a junior competition in the latter, you see. No doubt he’ll be in Ravenclaw with us._

_Just thought you should know._

Smugness radiated from the single line, and Hermione shook her head before continuing.

 _The second is that I have just come across the term_ _Hyper-Hominem code_ _._ This was underlined three times, each scratch of the quill perfectly straight. 

_I won’t say anymore, I won’t do your work for you. That said, be prepared for a thorough discussion of the basic principles on the Express come September 1st. Given your limited resources I don’t expect you to come up with much, but I know you’ll come up with_ something _._

_Augustus Rookwood_

_Rookwood Heir_

Included with the letter was the promised newspaper clipping, which she scanned with a yawn. There was no photo included of the little Fawley, due to his not yet being of an age to be at Hogwarts, but a small description of his win at the annual Ministry of Magic’s Under-11s Transfiguration Tourney mentioned a ‘youth with a daring glint in intelligent loden eyes, and eccentricity sparking from the unruly nature of the Fawley signature hair.’

Augustus Rookwood was what Zacharias Smith might have been, had he been ingenious rather than insipid and in Ravenclaw rather than Hufflepuff. His family based their superiority on their supposed lineage from Nimue herself, no matter that they weren’t even part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight as most who boasted the way he did were. No one particularly liked him but he had stuck himself to her ever since they had been put together earlier in the year for the final third year Ancient Runes project. She thought it might have been for the best, after she got to know the boy a bit better.

Rookwood had _dangerous_ ideas, and the more time she spent with him, the more she understood why he had been picked for both the Unspeakables and the Death Eaters where she was from. He had a lot of theories and many of them were alarmingly similar to those fielding classified discoveries much later in her universe, or they were downright crazy. He hid it well under his haughty, casually bigoted attitude, but Rookwood was chaotic. 

It wasn’t hard to imagine why Tom Marvolo Riddle would want a pureblood capable of such ingenuity under his thumb.

Therefore, despite the distaste she had for a lot of the things he said, she kept as close an eye on him as she dared and tried to dissuade him from certain paths of research. He was only fourteen now, but soon his work would start being fatal falling in the hands of Voldemort. Case in point: his interest in the Hyper-Hominem code, which had not become a public topic of research until 2002 in her dimension. Her only comfort was that, as long as he kept the racist garbage out of his mouth, he was quite an amusing conversationalist for someone his age.

“Hermione!” a voice called from the hallway. Without stopping to knock, the door to her bedroom was flung open, and an intimidatingly leggy woman of athletic build stepped in.

“I need you to do some of your magic thing to clear this zit,” she ordered, pointing to a sizeable blemish on her forehead. “Aunt Ruth will never stop ranting about my pathetic lack of marriageability otherwise.”

Hermione looked up from her writing desk. “Right after she berates you for copying those ‘ill-mannered Americans’ and not calling it a pimple first,” she said, unimpressed. “Honestly, what’s the point in having a door if no one ever _knocks_ on it, Jorie? Come in, then, and shut it behind you.”

Marjorie Doris Dursley was Hermione’s twenty-four-year-old sister, otherwise known as Jorie. That had been a compromise, after hearing the name ‘Marge’ had repeatedly elicited dredges of remembered spite on Harry’s behalf that made her want to hex an innocent, gangly teenager; the girl hadn’t deserved the wrath of a century and a half old witch. As a toddler, she had had enough leeway in the family to make the nickname stick, which was very good because ‘Jorie’ was certainly much better than what she had been calling Marjorie in her head for the first two months of her Dursley life (“ _that bulldog bint"_ ). 

It helped that, as of yet, there were no bulldogs of any kind to be found in Jorie’s life, nor was there the viciousness Harry had described. She didn’t know what had caused the girl to become the woman she had been, but she had strong suspicions that Stanley Dursley had had something to do with it. Luckily, he wasn’t too much of an issue anymore.

Hermione pulled open the bottom drawer of her bedside table where a cherry-wood box the size of a large textbook sat. Jorie’s keen eyes ran over the lines of strange scratchings that littered its faces. She didn’t understand any of it, of course, being what that McGonagall woman had called a ‘Muggle’ when she had visited three years ago, but they caught the eye in a pretty, antiquated way.

Hermione put the delicate skin around the bed of her thumbnail between her teeth and yanked.

“Ugh! What are you doing?” Jorie asked in horror.

“It just needs a little blood, Jorie,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. Ignoring her sister’s expression, she pressed her barely bleeding thumb to the lid, which sprung open.

Inside were dozens of rows of tiny glass vials, each with a meticulously measured bit of potion in it. An array of strange colours and textures, the vials were all labelled in Hermione’s thin, precise handwriting, and engraved with the reinforced preservation runes normally used only by Potions Masters. Not that Jorie knew that.

“Here,” she said, picking out an ampoule of pearly, reflective quality. “Dab it, don’t rub.” 

As she watched Jorie uncork the potion, the lid of the box was firmly shut and shoved back into her drawer. Using pre-mixed potions wasn’t _illegal_ , per se, but the Ministry definitely wouldn’t like that she had them, and she didn’t think it was quite as common a practice as it had been in her own universe. 

After the turn of the millennium, pre-mixed potions had practically been a tradition. Whereas Hermione had grit her teeth through the disadvantage of not having any magical family to cloak her use of at-home magic, further generations of Muggleborn children had benefited from laws which had switched the Trace from an Area Charm to a wand-specific Identifier Charm (known amongst the young ones as the Alarm Charm). Ingenuity had thus sprung from the frustration that _all_ young wizards and witches had faced with not being able to use their wands out of school.

Pre-made potions were just one of the popular methods of getting around it, but they were the easiest if you had a certain skill for them. Of course, most children in her universe hadn’t had a best friend to teach them the Master runes stopping them from expiring a week into the summer so they didn’t always last long, but it was better than nothing at all. Like any other law, there were parents who had flouted them or tried to get their child a second wand of seedier origins (Ollivander was, after all, an upstanding citizen), but the majority of wizarding parents kept to the word and turned a blind eye to their children’s experimentation in the contrary. 

“Thanks, little rosie.” Jorie had finished her dabbing and was crouching to eye her now unblemished skin in Hermione’s vanity. She met her sister’s gaze in the mirror and made a face. “I didn’t know that some magic needs blood.”

“It was a tiny pinprick,” she rolled her eyes. “I was under the impression that you thought magic the most fantastic and handy thing ever.”

“It’s still useful, I never said it wasn’t,” Jorie replied, as utilitarian as ever. “It’s just weird when you start doing Wicked Witch of the West-type things, like using _bodily fluids_ to make it work.”

“Vern doesn’t mind,” Hermione pointed out.

“Vernon doesn’t _care_ ,” Jorie corrected her, “unless it helps him pass his exams, get girls, or beat the other rugby team.” 

Satisfied with her reflection, she turned around and put her hands on her hips. “Anyway, don’t think I don’t know you’re stalling. You’d better come down quickly, Grandpa and Grandma are going to be here soon and I need reinforcements. Vern’s already set the table and everything.”

“If dad’s finally come out of his room, I’d rather stay up here and reply to the tosser who sent that,” Hermione muttered, jerking her head to Rookwood’s letter. “Or pluck out my eyelashes one by one, maybe.”

“Stanley will behave himself, you know it wouldn’t look good for him if he decided to have a tanty on his own mum’s birthday.“ After she moved out, she had dropped all pretenses of respect and stopped calling him Mr. Dursley, which she seemed to relish if one went by her little smirk. “Is that letter from a boy, then?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, he’s a racist _and_ a great buggering pillock.”

Jorie pursed her lips. “Well, you’re only fourteen. You don’t need to be thinking about boys anyway.”

Her sister disappeared back down the stairs after another hissed command to come down soon, so Hermione sighed and pushed Rookwood’s letter to the side, heading to her wardrobe to find something that wouldn’t trigger Aunt Ruth into a coronary about her inevitable descent into spinsterhood.

. . . 

**21st December, 1973**

**King’s Cross Station**

“Hermione! Hey, Hermione! Over here!”

It was the Friday before Christmas, and King’s Cross was packed. Given the hour, she wasn’t surprised to see the throngs of Hogwarts students interspersed with Muggle school uniforms, every child in Britain seemingly unable to contain their glee at being on break again.

A figure was waiting by Platform Six, their agreed-upon meeting spot. It wasn’t hard to spot him; not only did he tower over the crowds in a mighty bulk of 6’4” muscle, but he also looked quite ridiculous, waving his arms with a huge grin and his teddy-bear curls falling out of their pomade. The people who parted ways around him looked bemused at the whole display.

“Hey Vern.”

“Little sis,” Vernon Dursley greeted, taking her trunk from her. They left King’s Cross without being stopped; there was no one for Hermione to say goodbye or promise to write to over the break. “So, how embarrassing was I at the station, on a scale of 1 to 10?” 

It was a favourite game of his, trying to shake up his weirdly unshakeable little sister, and Hermione played her part as usual. 

“Hmm. A 2, maybe, and that’s just because I would’ve had to deal with the aftermath if you’d hit something with those tree-branch arms of yours.”

Vernon tsked as they got into his car. “Better luck next time, I guess. If I drop you off next term, I’ll run that wall with you and blow you kisses as your train leaves the platform, how’s that sound?”

“If you try to run the wall, it’ll be a hard landing for you, you muggle,” Hermione laughed. “You can’t get through!”

“I’m a rugby player, Hermione, we’re _breakers_ of walls!”

They turned out of the station slowly, wading at a snail’s pace through the traffic. Vernon began humming under his breath, then fiddled with the radio. ABBA began their lusty assault on her ears.

“Ugh. Bloody hell, Vern!”

“ _Dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen,_ ” he sang, giving her a wiggle of the eyebrows. “Met plenty of the type at uni. Those dancing queens are beautiful but bonkers, let me tell you.”

“Enjoying it, then? Can’t believe you chose to do _English Studies_ , of all things.”

“It’s damned easy,” Vernon beamed, “I’ve got so much time for the pub! Jeff’s dad’s a toff of some sort, too, and he got one of those Fairchild console things brought over from America for us so we can play some stuff at home instead of at the arcade! It’s so much better than having to sneak out behind Stan’s back.” His fingers bobbed on the steering wheel in time to the music. “Bet boarding school’s the same, how’s that new place of yours?”

“It’s okay,” she shrugged with a controlled smile.

Truth be told, Hogwarts in the 1970s was gloomy; Hermione hadn’t ever heard, in the Order of the Phoenix’s nostalgic reminiscing, how much the early years of the First Wizarding War had frightened people. 

That first weekend after she had started Hogwarts, she had descended from Ravenclaw Tower late in the morning, intent on talking to the school elves about her situation. Given the length of time she had already been in this universe and all that she had been doing in the interim, she no longer felt the urgency to understand as feverishly as she once had, but sometimes she still took the article from _Advances in the Arcane_ , which was very crumpled indeed, and stared at it. She had constant access to elves now and wanted to continue her work learning Elvish Futhark, seeing what the elves might be able to tell her.

However, the first mention of serf magic had not gone down well at all. 

Shocked exclamations scattered the kitchens, instead.

“Fair Elf, forgive us!”

“Miss is _knowing?_ ”

“No, no, no, a _mage_ is knowing about _elf secrets-_ ”

“Do I not- can’t you sense the bond?” she had exclaimed, baffled by the reaction which so contrasted to the way Elder Algy and Pompey had exclaimed that they could _feel_ the Fair Elf’s mark on her.

“You is not having a bond!” an elf cried shrilly, jabbing a finger at her. “You is not supposed to be knowing! You must be leaving now!”

The elves had recoiled and moaned, shaking their heads and clamping hands over their ears. No matter what Hermione had tried to say to them afterwards, she was ignored. She stumbled out of the kitchens in bewilderment, and never visited again.

Later that day, she had gone up to lunch still feeling shaken by the change in the elves’ reception, but entering the Great Hall had made it so much worse. She was met with stifling silence. There were students about - many, in fact - but no teachers, and no one seemed to be talking at all. When Hermione had asked in an undertone what had happened, Peregrine Selwyn, one of the other Ravenclaw first years, whispered the answer: _Dorcas Meadowes’ brother came back from Brazil to pick her up. There was a Dark Mark over their parents’ house._

It was not to be the last time a similar proclamation was made. 

The only bright spot in the term had been seeing the third year Marauders, Lily Potter and Severus Snape, alive and well. She had done the math before, of course, and had known logically that they would all be waiting for her when she began her first year. Knowing it was immensely different to seeing them in person, and something in her brain had changed then.

She hadn’t realised how she’d been floating around in the body of Hermione Dursley pre-Hogwarts, going through the motions, until the feeling fled her and solid conviction was left in its place. As she’d eventually come to the firm conclusion that she was indeed in Wonderland, a la Theory #3 (even if she couldn’t get the elves to prove it for her), she decided that being in a different dimension meant that she had free rein to do whatever she wanted here without affecting Voldemort’s Extremely Dead status where she had originally come from.

She would change things, starting with the Dursleys.

Back in 1973, Hermione waved off any more questions about Hogwarts. “And how’s the rest of the family? Mum and Jorie?” She paused, before adding reluctantly, “Dad?”

Vernon fell quiet. With him, that was never a good sign.

“Jorie’s great,” he replied after a full minute, ringing with false cheer. “I know she’s been telling you how much she loves vet med, what with all those letters I keep getting. I feel like a damn post boy.” 

That was a reference to the fact that all of the sisters’ letters had had to be relayed via Vernon, because Jorie’s roommates were prissy whereas none of Vernon’s seemed to know or care how strange it was to be visited by an owl at least once a week.

“And Mum and Dad?”

He turned off the road, moving in a very different direction from the one she knew led to Borage Hill. “Let’s go into this caff for a bit. I bet you’re hungry.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. They took a table near the back of the empty shop, and she waited for their double order of fish and chips to be brought over before she took one chip, pointed it at him, and demanded, “What are you stalling about?”

“It’s kinda scary how you always know when I’m doing that, rosie,” her brother exhaled.

Hermione looked unsympathetic. “Vernon.”

He tapped the table, not looking at her. “Mum and Stanley aren’t doing too well at the moment to be honest, Hermione. I haven’t been back home much, Jorie’s usually the one who visits mum, but from what I saw, mum’s not… she’s not good.”

“Are they getting a divorce?” Blandness marked her utter lack of surprise.

“I don’t think so, mum didn’t mention anything about it. Doesn’t stop me from dreaming about it, though,” he glowered.

By the time they turned into Acton Avenue, it was already getting dark. Stanley Dursley was waiting for them in the living room’s central recliner, a beer already in his hand.

“Where have you been, boy?” he snarled at Vernon as soon as the door snapped shut.

“Picking up Hermione,” Vernon replied. His tone implied, _As you damn well know._

Stanley’s face turned purple. “Don’t you use that disrespectful tone on me! It doesn’t take two bloody hours to get here. If I find out you’ve been tainting her with your hooligan ways…”

Vernon’s lips thinned, and he deliberately turned away from the man. “Come on, let’s bring your things upstairs and say hi to mum, Hermione.”

But Hermione couldn’t look away from Stanley. Merlin, she’d managed to forget over the three months at Hogwarts what a sorry excuse for a person he was.

“Hello, dad,” she said, eyeing him. Something about him had changed, and it was most definitely not for the better.

Peculiarly, his face didn’t soften an inch when he turned on her, as it usually did. “You! Listen to me right now. You’ll not be doing a flaming thing in this house that you learned at that… at that school! We’re having tea with the Jamesons tomorrow, and you’ll not breathe a word of your witchcraft voodoo to their daughter, either. I want the promotion that’s coming up, and if _you_ want to keep a roof over your head, you will behave and I will get it.” 

His tone brooked no further argument, which was why Vernon tensed when she said:

“No.”

“What- what did you just say?”

“No. I have homework to do, and I want to spend time with mum.”

“Christ _,_ Hermione,” Vernon balked quietly.

Stanley’s eyes bulged. “You are _my_ daughter. You’ll do as I say, or you’ll turn out like that blasted Marjorie!”

“Jorie’s doing just fine for herself,” was all Hermione said, but her fingers went very visibly to the pocket of her coat, where the tip of her wand poked out. Stanley’s eyes darted down, and his jaw clenched so hard she was surprised he didn’t shatter it. She waited patiently to see what he would do next.

“Fine! You’ll stay here in this ruddy house and you’ll not go anywhere! Nor will that mother of yours, unless I _say_ so!” 

The veins in his neck throbbed.

“This is all your fault,” he hissed at Hermione. “If you had just done your 11-plus and gone to Whitefriar Grammar instead of doing all this _freakish_ crap-!”

_Right, so I could give you yet another thing to try to lord over everyone at work?_

Something must have shown on her face because he raised his arm out of sheer instinct. Vernon jerked in alarm, already moving between them.

There was a beat where they stared at each other, a man shy of 5’10” glaring down at all 4’7” of Hermione Dursley. From the working of his jaw, she knew he was remembering the first time she saw him take a hand to Jorie and Vernon. He was remembering how the bottle of grog he had been brandishing had flown at his head, and he was remembering how he hadn’t woken up until the next day.

“You’re not _normal_ ,” he spat, and tossed the bottle of beer to the ground. The front door slammed on his way out.

Afterwards, Vernon went straight to the kitchen to make a strong cup of tea, muttering about little sisters having a death wish, and Hermione went upstairs to look for her mum. Given what she had just come home to, she was worried about what state she would find her in, and her chest squeezed for the woman who had, in the past seven years, loved her more than the Grangers combined. She didn’t feel guilty for the frank observation; the Grangers had done their best, but they hadn’t been _feelers_ the way Perdita Dursley was. Long past the years where she required such things, it still floored her.

She found her in Vernon’s old bedroom slumped on the bed, the cloying scent of orange blossom perfume hanging in the air.

“Hermione!” she croaked, immediately rising when she saw her daughter. “I heard shouting.” She hesitated, running her eyes over Hermione’s face, arms, legs. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Hermione took in the darkness under Dita’s eyes and the way her collarbone harshly stuck out beneath the straps of her dress, letting out a shaky breath. “ _Mum._ ”

Before either of them knew it, Dita was sobbing into her shoulder. “I know what you’re going to say! We can’t leave him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s- it’s his house, and he was so good to take Jorie and Vernon in after Andrew died, and he’s your father.” Her breathing was becoming shallower by the second. “I left school early, I don’t know how to work-”

“Mum, if you want to leave him, we’ll help you.” She’d do something to get rid of the damn man herself if she had to.

Dita shook her head and wrung her hands. “No, no, even if I really wanted to, he won’t allow it! None of the other men in the company are divorced.”

“It doesn’t have to be-” Hermione pursed her lips, “-strictly lawful. I can do something - something _mostly harmless_ , mind - that will keep him away.” 

A Compulsion Charm would do nicely; she wasn’t meant to be able to cast one yet, but Dita didn’t need to know that. Despite the fact that her magical capacity was horribly shot because of how young her body was, she could most definitely manage a charm strong enough to affect a muggle like Stanley, so long as she anchored it to an amulet of some sort. It would have to wait until she went back to school, though.

She didn’t really know what she was expecting - a look of horror, maybe, at what her eleven-year-old daughter was suggesting - but it wasn’t for Dita to look at her with rising hope.

“Can you- can you do that Hermione?”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” Her mum’s voice barely wavered, and she promised, “I’ll leave him, Hermione, I swear it to you. Just not now. When you’re older. It’s not so bad, with you kids now out of the house most of the year.”

Hermione only nodded and allowed herself to be clung to.

“Everything I do is for you, Jorie and Vernon,” Dita said after her tears had abated, harsh with emotion. “My rose, my pearl, my tree. Never doubt it.”

Three weeks later, one of the Hogwarts owls flew into Acton Avenue and dropped a charming little pendant hanging off of filigree gold into Dita’s lap. _A late Christmas gift, mum. I hope you wear it religiously,_ the note said.

The conversation was never brought up again.

. . .

**1st September, 1976**

**Borage Hill, London**

The rest of the summer before fourth year passed by quickly. 

Rookwood didn’t send another letter after Hermione’s single word reply ( _“Fine.”_ ) and no one else at Hogwarts wrote or cared since she had rebuffed all overtures of friendship in first year. Thus, other than the occasional trip to Borage Hill Plaza with Dita, visits from Vernon whenever he tried to unsuccessfully wheedle her into ‘Magicking away the failed courses on his uni transcript’, and Jorie retreating to the bedroom that they used to share whenever the Sloanes she lived with got too much to bear, Hermione was left alone. 

She had used this time to ponder what it would take to turn Rookwood’s attention away from the Hyper-Hominem code. Perhaps bait in the form of a more harmless topic of interest? The code was one of those risky pieces of knowledge she didn't want anyone to get ideas about at this time, but by the time September dawned she conceded that she didn’t really know him well enough yet to know what made him tick. She would have to wait and see what he had to say first.

“Mum! We’ve got an hour before the train leaves the platform!” Hermione shouted, banging on Dita’s bedroom door. “We’re going to be late!”

The Hogwarts Express never left past 11 o’clock; Hermione knew this because, when her best friends Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had not made it onto the train by 10:55am the morning their second year started, she had very nicely asked the train conductor if he wouldn’t consider waiting ten extra minutes in case her friends were running late, and he had sneered and said, _The Hogwarts Express never leaves past 11 o’clock._

“Don’t worry so much, my rose, you’ll get frown lines,” called her mother from the other side. “There’s plenty of time!”

“ _Mum_ ,” she groaned, “the drive’s forty-eight minutes!”

“Like I said, plenty of time! I’ll be ready in a tick, love.”

Hermione leaned her head on the door, thoroughly exasperated. If she had been allowed to go by herself as she had last year, she would’ve been there at nine and had her own compartment locked and warded by a quarter past. This year, her mother was insisting for some reason or the other that she just _had_ to see Hermione off.

“Mummy _,_ ” she tried next, ruthlessly exploiting what she knew of Dita’s weaknesses, “we need to- bugger!” The door had been thrown open and Hermione lost her footing.

“Hermione Jean! What kind of language is that?”

She ignored the admonition, gaping. “What are you _wearing?_ ”

Dita frowned. “Is it a bit much, do you think?”

Perdita was certainly trying to impress _someone_ , of that there was no doubt. Hermione had never seen that soft knit dress before, and her russet-tinted bob had been tamed straight and sleek. Normally chapped, bitten lips were painted a glossy coral, and there was a sparkle in her eye. She looked more lively today than Hermione had seen her in the past two months combined.

“Are you trying to seduce my schoolmates’ dads or something?” she blurted out, aghast as she eyed the flattering shape of her waist and the cut at her legs.

“Don’t be ridiculous.“ Dita’s laugh was slightly manic-sounding.

Hermione wordlessly shook her head, grabbing her mother firmly by the arm. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Luckily, it being late morning on a Wednesday meant traffic wasn’t horrible, and they reached King’s Cross station with twenty minutes to spare.

“Mum?” Vernon looked confused when he saw them approaching their meeting point, Platform Six. “What are you wearing?”

“A dress, darling, I hear they’re quite in vogue.”

“Sorry I’m late!” came a voice a couple of minutes later, and they saw Jorie pushing her way through the crowds. “Mum! What in bloody Callaghan’s name are you wearing?”

“For goodness’ sake!” Dita exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips. “We’re here to see Hermione off, not question my fashion choices!”

The three siblings exchanged looks.

“ _Right_ ,” Hermione said, deciding to ignore both the bizarre exchange and the way Dita’s eyes seemed to track everyone who passed, stopping very obviously on those she knew were destined for Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you all at Christmas, unless I don’t and I see you at Easter instead.”

Vernon slapped her back hard, briefly winding her. “I’ll be waiting for a bundle of those wicked Every Flavour Beans. Toss in a pint of that ice-cream that doesn’t melt, too, would ya? Our freezer keeps breaking and Barney won’t chip in to get it fixed.”

Jorie nudged him away. “Shove off, Vern, as if you need anymore food.” She tugged on the curl hanging over Hermione’s forehead. “Have fun this year. Update me on if that boy stops being a racist or a pillock.”

(“What boy?” Vernon squawked from where he had been shunted)

Dita’s greeting was last, but she made it speedy when she saw the kids with owls and trunks starting to rush. Putting her hands on Hermione’s shoulders, which she noted was more of a stretch this year than it had been last, she hummed and said, “Don’t get into any trouble, now.”

“When do I ever?” Hermione smirked.

Dita chucked her on the chin. “That’s true. If you remain good, I might have a surprise for you when you come home next.”

When she got on the train, it was predictably packed to the rafters, the noise and chatter getting louder the further in she got. She went in through the back entrance, remembering Rookwood’s compartment preferences from the ride at the end of last term. No doubt he was going to pounce on her, ready to launch right into the promised debate he had demanded, and she resigned herself to the need to meet him straight on.

As predicted, his compartment was the third on the left from the back. It was empty aside from the boy with his nose stuck in a book, and given the overcrowding in the other ones she had passed, she took it to mean that he had already managed to do something to head off whichever innocent souls had naively claimed the compartment before him.

“Who did you piss off this time?” was her greeting as she levitated her trunk into the overhead compartment.

“Don’t be uncouth,” he said, not looking up. “Rookwoods don’t ‘piss people off _._ ’ We merely rile them up for our own amusement, and laugh at them when they soil themselves in a plebeian lack of composure.”

“I don’t think that reasoning would hold up in court if someone was arrested for, I don’t know, _attempting to murder you_.”

“Dursley, Dursley, Dursley.” He snapped the book shut and put it aside, leaning forward. “You Muggleborns just don’t know how the world works.”

Hermione pressed her lips together to stop herself from laughing. It was really quite absurd, being spoken to like that by a fourteen-year-old.

“I know,” she said seriously after a second. “That’s why I hang around you. I have so much to learn.”

“See that you do,” he replied, just as seriously.

They stared at each other for a moment, before breaking out into wry, amused grins.

“Had an alright summer, then?” she asked, relaxing into the opposite bench next to where a massive ball of white speckled fur was napping, stretched languidly over the scratchy upholstery. 

At the dip of the cushion under Hermione’s weight, pumpkin-coloured eyes snapped open and assessed the cause of the disturbance. A yeowl of regard acknowledged Hermione, before the Egyptian Kneazle promptly dropped her massive bulk in the girl’s lap and went back to sleep. 

“Oof- hello, Thallon.”

Rookwood waved a hand lazily, watching his familiar’s blatant admission of approval with indulgence. “Same old, same old. I spent a lot of time at the Ministry with my mother’s side of the family, you’ll remember I told you her cousin organises their events. It’s all quite tiring, but I made good use of their public library at least. You remembered to do your research, didn’t you? On the Hyper-Hominem code?”

“I did,” Hermione said as casually as she could, twirling her wand between two fingers. “Can’t say I found it all that interesting, though. It sounds like basic stuff.”

Unfortunately, diverting him wasn’t to be that easy; Rookwood wasn’t deterred in the slightest. “Come on, Dursley - an Arithmantic equation that can tell you where your magical power falls on the Leyan scale! It’s _useful_.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed mildly, “but people use it to test if their kids are squibs, it’s not that uncommon. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard of it already.”

Rookwood snorted. “Of course not. We’re untainted, we haven’t had a muggle or squib in the line for centuries.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “Untainted, huh?”

He reddened, the colour clashing awfully with his copper hair. “Don’t get sidetracked, Dursley. Think of the _possibilities_!” 

His eyes were alight with inspiration, haughtiness now completely absent. 

“I read that the wards that stop muggles from seeing our world use the code as a base. Imagine if we could, I don’t know, make Hogwarts selective so only wizards of a certain calibre could even step foot in it, let alone enrol! Or- or a potion! We could experiment with different ingredients to see if anything could increase that number permanently!”

Sometimes Rookwood confused her greatly. It was so obvious at times like these that he believed all of that muggle inferiority rubbish, which was why she had no idea what had gone through the boy’s mind to make him attach himself to Hermione Dursley. It would be an interesting… investigation, perhaps, to see if this continued association with her did anything to dislodge his stubborn worldview.

“-or _Merlin!_ What if we could _fix_ squibs and give them magic?”

Uh oh. Time to put a stop to the conversation right there. His ideas were even closer to future experiments than she had predicted.

“Rookwood, that would be highly _illegal_ ,” she said in the flattest voice she could muster, “not to mention most likely impossible _,_ which makes this conversation entirely pointless.”

“I’m telling you Dursley, we could be onto something here; imagine if _we_ discovered it!”

“Rookwood-”

Hermione was saved from Attempt Number Two of trying to get through Rookwood’s relentless one-track mind when the door to their compartment burst open, startling a small scream from her and a dignified yelp from the boy. 

“Regulus, o’ brother mine, is it here that thou hast found thy hiding place?” Sirius Black cried dramatically, leaning against the doorframe. “Oh ho, what do we have in here? A couple of little swots! A place where little Reggie would blend right in, to be sure.”

“Sirius, you’re a ponce,” an exasperated voice sighed, and a head popped up over his shoulder, peering into the carriage. 

“I’m siriusly a ponce, surely?” Sirius said, turning to the head at his shoulder.

“Sorry about him,” Remus Lupin said to the compartment’s occupants at large, “we’re looking for his brother, Regulus Black. Any chance you’ve spotted him?” As he finally registered who they were bothering, he blinked, then smiled. “Hello, Hermione and Hermione’s friend.”

“Remus,” Hermione said pleasantly. Rookwood’s lip curled.

“I have a name, you know. Augustus Rookwood. Heir of-”

“-the proud house of Rookwood, pureblood yadda yadda, okay, we get it.” Sirius rolled his eyes. 

“You know this bird, Remy?” he continued, raising an eyebrow. He turned to Hermione and closed his eyes, putting two fingers to his temple as if he were in great thought. “Wait, don’t tell me - Davy? Daley? Dolly?”

“Dursley,” Hermione replied, greatly amused.

“Dolly,” Sirius nodded. “Groovy. So anyway - my brother? Ickle first year, about yay high, almost as handsome as the devil - the devil being me, of course. Seen anything scurry past looking like that?”

“He’s a few carriages down, Paddy,” a third person called, and then James Potter’s aquiline nose was poking into the compartment, glasses perched precariously on the tip. “Pete found him; come on, you can stop bothering the kiddies now. Hello Rookwood, Dursley.”

“What! Even _you_ know the little swots?” Sirius exclaimed.

“Hate to say it, mate, but you don’t notice a blasted thing unless it has something to do with a bird and her-” here he stopped, eyed the two fourth years, and continued, “-well, I won’t say it in front of the children, but you know what I mean. Dursley’s helped me with my Runes work before, and your brother’s with Rookwood’s cousin.”

Without another word to either Rookwood or Hermione, Sirius spun on his heel and went the way James indicated. Hermione heard his indignant complaint further down the train: “I thought _I_ was the popular one here!”

James shrugged and gave them a parting smile that was _just_ different enough from Harry’s that her heart only twinged a little. Remus was more eloquent (“ _Sorry for the bother, Hermione; I’ll try to rein the wankers in this year!”_ ) and then they were ambling off after their wayward friend, leaving Hermione feeling rather fond.

It was so strange… even with her staying mostly away from the so-called Marauders in this universe, there were still moments like these where their paths crossed and her life was brighter for it. Boyish spirit trailed all four of them - even Pettigrew - like an errant puppy, though it was coloured charmingly caddish in Sirius’ case, and to a lesser extent, James. As different as they were to the men she had known, Sirius’ eyes still retained a recognisable glean, and the professor could be seen in the quiet, reassuring way Remus spoke to her on the rare occasions when they had shared a library table. 

“You’re smiling,” Rookwood said.

“Am I?”

“You like Potter and Black’s gang.” He voiced it the same way one would accuse another of being contagiously - and dangerously - ill. “I thought you didn’t have friends.”

“I _don’t_.”

He sounded oddly insistent. “You’re friendly with them, though.” 

“Does it really matter?” Hermione pressed her lips together, suddenly irked.

The redhead opened his mouth for a second, then let it snap shut. “No… I suppose not. Never mind.”

The rest of the ride to Hogwarts was quiet, and Rookwood didn’t bring up the Marauders or the Hyper-Hominem code again.

. . .

**1st September, 1976**

**Great Hall, Hogwarts**

Hermione conducted her first Great Hall Once-Over of the school year while the rest of the students settled in their seats, babbling excitedly. The weekly situational update on the people she had known before was helpful; last year, for example, she had been able to check the Marauders’ progress on their Animagus transformations by the pallor of Remus’ skin the mornings after the full moon, and knew that by the end of their fifth year a couple of months ago they had still be unsuccessful.

This year, she began at the Head Table. Dumbledore and McGonagall were looking over their charges, and she wasn’t surprised that they seemed stressed; she had never seen them at the same level of geniality here as she had back home. She thought they had been a part of the Order already by this time, but she couldn’t be sure. Was the Order even formed yet? She’d not heard anything about that, but perhaps the grimaces were a clue. As far as she knew, there hadn’t been any major Death Eater attacks over the break, so that level of concern _had_ to be related to illegal underground organisations.

Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff turned up nothing more interesting than Barty Crouch Jr, who was a Ravenclaw fourth year like her and was, as far as she could tell at the moment, fairly harmless; he looked bored as he levitated a feather repeatedly up and down in the air with his cheeks puffed out. 

She moved her attention to Slytherin. Severus Snape was there, alternating between morosely staring at his hands and shooting glares at the girl he had had a fight with in June ( _what an epic disaster that had been_ , Rookwood had amusedly informed her as he regaled the whole thing, ignoring her frown). 

Following his laser focus, she noted that Lily Evans, the pretty Gryffindor prefect, was greeting her friends with air-kisses to the cheek and sitting next to - _oh_ , James. Huh. It looked like his six-year stalking effort had finally paid off. Sirius was grinning at them lasciviously, while Remus and Peter chatted amicably nearby with Alice Gilborne. 

Fantastic. Nothing too surprising there.

Quick scan done, she allowed her relief to put a small smile on her face, and turned to the first years who were anxiously waiting in a huddle for their Sorting.

“Who are you looking for?” Rookwood asked, sitting beside her. He looked mostly recovered from the funk he had been in on the train.

“Just curious about Black’s brother,” she murmured, “seeing as they put all that effort into looking for him.”

It was out of morbid curiosity more than anything else. She had never seen a picture of the boy who would grow up to defy Voldemort, but she, Harry, and Ron had owed him much for his bravery in the hunt for Horcruxes. After realising Regulus Arcturus Black was only eleven at the moment, a part of her desperately wanted to help him avoid his unfortunate fate if it was possible. If not, she would _make_ it possible.

_Nope, that’s not him. No. No. Hmm, definitely a Weasley or Prewett member. No, hair’s too light. No. No - ah._

There was really no mistaking him. Even from the distance, she could see the straight shoulders, the dark, cascading waves, and the rigid back. He was standing quietly, head cocked in a regal tilt towards a nearby wild-haired youth, who was gesturing passionately around him. He seemed to be humouring the boy, but it was more than he was willing to give to the rest of the first years, who he was ignoring altogether.

Before Rookwood could start whatever comment he was sure to make on her supposed curiosity, Professor McGonagall stood up and retrieved the Sorting Hat. Her lips were thin as she waited for the chatting to die down to whispers, and the whispers to disappear altogether, before she uttered, “The Sorting Ceremony will now begin. Applebee, Sullivan!”

A tall blonde child, practically bounding in his excitement, squashed the Hat on his head. 

“RAVENCLAW!”

She applauded along with the rest of her house but could already feel herself starting to tune out; it _was_ the tenth time she had had to witness such an event, after all. Letting the familiarity of it all wash over her, she began to tap her fingers on the table absently, keeping an ear out for familiar names. 

Regulus was no surprise at all, of course - Slytherin in three seconds flat ( _Reggie!”_ Sirius had cried in despair which was almost believable). Two more bookish-looking children joined Ravenclaw, and then she heard:

“Henry Fawley!”

Hermione wasn’t the only one who perked up at the calling of Rookwood’s cousin and watched as a small figure - to her surprise, the wild-haired boy who had been talking to Regulus - pushed through the throng of first years. She was quite used to the eleven-year-olds showing their nervousness at the Sorting in all manners of display; most often, they dashed to the stool and jammed the Hat over their eyes in over-enthusiasm, as Sullivan Applebee had, but there were also the ones who tripped in their excitement, the ones who anxiously shuffled under the eyes of the student body, and the ones who practically sprinted up there, wanting to get it over and done with.

Fawley did none of these things. 

_What confidence for such a young boy_ , Hermione thought keenly, watching him march to the stool in lengthy strides disproportionate to his stature. She was preparing to clap when the Hat opened its mouth and shouted, 

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Rookwood groaned audibly, and the table beside them burst into applause which might have been a tad more excited than previous; it was clear that that Prophet article had put him on the school’s radar already. 

“What a joke,” he grumbled, sounding quite put-out. From the expressions around her, it seemed that any of the Ravenclaws who had taken even a passing interest in the article over the summer had also expected Fawley to require a blue school tie.

Shrugging at Rookwood in some sympathy - perhaps he had been hoping to take Fawley under his wing - she listened as the rest of the ceremony continued uneventfully.

. . .

It was almost the end of dinner when it happened.

She was watching Severus Snape - _not_ creepily, mind you - push around his roasted vegetables. His lank hair was almost touching the plate, and Hermione tried not to wrinkle her nose too much as she considered the pros and cons of trying to get chummy with him this year. It had never been a part of her plan -

( _I_ _see no difference_ , Professor Snape scoffed)

\- but… well, to be honest, he looked like he really needed a friend at the moment. As well as some hygiene lessons.

 _Maybe I’m growing my own hero complex_ , she pondered as a voice which sounded rather like Harry urged her to put a stop on Snape’s two-decade penance by getting him to screw his head on properly _before_ the Potters’ deaths (not that she was going to let that particular event happen this time around). 

As she was weighing the chances of Snape deigning to acknowledge a mudblood two years his junior who didn’t even have the benefit of being pretty, she would have missed the heated discussion Rookwood was having if he hadn’t been right beside her.

“I told Cousin Myrcela that I would look after you, Henry,” he was saying, straddling the bench sideways to facilitate the conversation, “but that’s because I thought you would be in Ravenclaw!”

“Don’t look after me, then,” came the simple reply. 

“Well- well, no, I can’t do that. Not since you’ve been having those issues-“

“Which I’m _handling._ Leave me alone, Gus.”

Rookwood huffed. “You are the least Hufflepuffiest Hufflepuff that I’ve ever met,” he maintained, arms crossed.

“Look, the Hat gave me two options: the glorious one or the easy one. I was being _smart_ when I chose the easy one.”

This statement garnered some grumbling from the Hufflepuffs who had overheard him, but Hermione didn’t hear that. The spoon of stew that had been about to enter her mouth halted in mid-air at a fleeting remembrance.

 _D’you ever think about all the little points in time where we change the future of the world with a single decision?_ Hermione had asked Harry under the stars. It was July of 2001, and they had just returned from an emotionally-draining six month stint in Romania, having stumbled upon the horrifying existence of Obscurials. _Like- like what if your relatives had chosen to be nicer, and you didn’t feel like you needed to prove yourself so much. Or if they had done worse, and…_ The sobbing of Romanian orphans rang in her ears.

 _All the time_ , Harry had whispered. _Way too much, really._

Their hands had been curled together.

 _Going to Hogwarts was that turning point for me,_ was Hermione’s reply. _Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t accepted, or if I hadn’t met you on the train, or if we had never been friends. If the Horcrux had tried to influence you much earlier, maybe it would have tried to get you into Slytherin. We_ really _never_ _would’ve been friends, then._

 _It did,_ Harry had admitted. _Try, I mean. Well - maybe it wasn’t the Horcrux, but Slytherin was put on the table before Gryffindor, even. The Hat gave me a choice: a difficult path to greatness, or an easy path to love. I was sick of being with the Dursleys and being hated, so I chose the easy one. In the end, there was nothing noble about me being put in Gryffindor at all._

“Alright, Dursley?” Rookwood cut off from his conversation to cock an eyebrow at her as she choked on nothing.

_Surely not._

A fork hit a plate, the loud clang ringing almost unheard in the commotion of dinner.

“ _Dursley?_ ”

 _Surely,_ surely _not._

She turned to the Hufflepuff table, where Rookwood’s cousin Henry was gaping at her with the Fawley hair and Harry Potter’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this chapter was so easy to imagine but so hard to freaking write. ANYWAY, Harry’s back. Kind of, as you’ll see next chapter. He didn’t stay dead for long, did he?
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kudos, feedback and questions (especially the latter, which I really, really love) - it’s a much better response than I expected given the rare ships and potentially off-putting mention of Dursleys haha. 
> 
> In terms of a posting schedule since I’ve had questions here and on FFN, I’m going to try and stick to weekly weekend updates, but as I’m envisioning this as a three-part series, that might change in the long-term!


	5. Henry Fawley

**3rd September, 1976**

**Great Hall, Hogwarts**

Hermione knew, when she hastened down to the Great Hall on Friday morning, that she was a mess. She’d known she would be a mess, too, because she’d been one yesterday, and what a disaster her first day of classes had been. She’d not absorbed a single word that was said. The fact of the matter was, if anyone knew the reason _why_ she was a mess, they would hardly blame her.

Harry was back. Harry was _here_.

Harry was also avoiding her.

“Dursley.”

Why was he avoiding her? She’d expected… well, a much warmer response than the one she’d gotten when she’d sent him an owl on Wednesday night, skirting dangerously close to curfew in her inability to wait.

He’d replied yesterday with a curt _no, not today, we can meet after classes tomorrow_.

“ _Dursley_.”

Why wasn’t he jumping to see her? Did he think it would be awkward? That couldn’t be it; after so many years together, there really was nothing that she hadn’t seen or heard from him before.

Yet the fact of the matter was, she’d not seen him once in the past two days.

“Dursley!”

Perhaps it wasn’t Harry? Harry had _died_ after all - this was the logical conclusion. Henry Fawley, however, was too much of a coincidence; what were the chances of someone who looked so much like her friend perking up at hearing ‘Dursley’ and being named _Henry_ , to boot?

Never mind that when she’d tried to catch him after the feast, he’d deftly joined the rest of Hufflepuff and disappeared into the- “Ouch!”

Hermione glared at the direction the Stinging Hex had come from. “What was that for?” she scowled, her eyes snapping to the boy sitting across from her at the Ravenclaw table.

“Cease and desist at once,” Rookwood said mildly, not removing his gaze from the Daily Prophet issue which was spread in front of him in place of breakfast. 

“What?”

He stared pointedly at where she had clutched her fingers around a spoon and was currently digging a small crater into the grain of the wood. She felt her cheeks flame up and muttered a _Reparo_.

Hermione breathed out through her nostrils, willing herself to calm down. She wasn’t fourteen years old, no matter what she looked like. She could handle herself with some modicum of decorum.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to snap at you,” she sighed, taking her hands and sitting on them to keep from embarrassing herself further. “Anything interesting in there?” She nodded at the paper.

Rookwood ignored her question, taking a bite of painstakingly-cut breakfast banger. “I can practically hear that brain of yours creaking under whatever no doubt unnecessary strain you’re subjecting it to. What could you possibly be worrying about? It’s the third day of term!”

“Menstruation,” she said flatly. 

“Ugh.” Rookwood made a face and leaned away, despite the fact that he was already across the table from her. “Never mind. Can you eat something? This fidgeting of yours is bothering my diurnal waking process.”

“Shut it, Rookwood!” Barty Crouch Jr. snarled from a few seats down, where his head seemed to be cocooned between his arms in direct protestation of the hall’s plentiful sunlight. Peregrine Selwyn just had the flat of his palms shoved against his eye sockets. “It’s too early to be using big words.”

Rookwood smirked. “Your inability to comprehend fundamental English extends far beyond the morning, Crouch.”

“Tosser.”

Hermione forced herself to act normal and grabbed a stack of buttered toast. “So,” she said again, trying not to let herself peek too many times at the entrance of the Great Hall, “anything interesting in the Prophet?”

“Only the continued rise of our political lord and saviour,” Rookwood responded with a casual air.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, look here.” Rookwood spun the newspaper to face her and pushed it forward, eyes gleaming. “Lucius Malfoy’s just become the newest member of the Wizengamot! He’s only twenty two, you know. Imagine getting that much of a foothold in the Ministry only four years after you graduate!” He sounded, to Hermione’s alarm, quite enamoured of Malfoy.

She read the headline: _MALFOY PATRIARCH ABRAXAS MALFOY DEAD! LUCIUS MALFOY YOUNGEST TO JOIN WIZENGAMOT AT 22!_ A skim of the article revealed that Abraxas Malfoy, who had been a distinguished member of the Wizengamot, had just died at the extremely young age of forty-five due to dragon pox. There was gushing over how Malfoy Junior had completed his work experience as the British Youth Representative in the Wizengamot in his seventh year (weird) and how he had been slated to join the Aurors due to multiple unexpected growth spurts of magical power he’d had after graduation (doubly weird). Lucius, the paper raved, would be the new frontier of the wizarding community’s future leaders, paving the way via a triple-threat of political ambition, magical prowess, and dastardly good looks. It was enough to make a sane girl hurl, really.

“The Chief Warlock will be happy,” Rookwood mused.

“Why? I never thought Dumbledore was a fan of Malfoy either way.”

He sniffed. “There are times when I honestly despair of you, Hermione. Do you know nothing of politics? Dumbledore wouldn’t be allowed within five feet of the Wizengamot’s special lift, let alone in the thing itself!”

“Uh…”

“The Chief Warlock is, of course, Arcturus Black III - the Black brothers’ grandfather. The gossip’s that, although Lucius is married to his favourite granddaughter Narcissa, Arcturus _loathed_ Abraxas, so I’m sure he’s delighted. In fact-”

“Hold on,” Hermione interrupted, her brain catching up. “Why isn’t Dumbledore Chief Warlock? Why wouldn’t he be allowed in the Wizengamot?”

Rookwood shrugged. “Why would he be? He’s never had the political capital. From what my grandfather says, no one’s let the old man near anything more influential than Hogwarts after that scandal about him making plans for world domination with Grindelwald came out. Apparently he used to be destined for great things but…” He shrugged. “Sometimes you make friends with the wrong sort.”

She didn’t bother to comment on the reticence on his face when he said the last sentence. Her thoughts were racing. 

Dumbledore wasn’t Chief Warlock? Did he have his other titles, too? It wasn’t something she’d ever thought to check on; she’d just _assumed_ it would be the same, and he’d never seemed substantially less busy for it. 

Dumbledore’s place in the Wizengamot, of course, wasn’t the most worrying thing about this; the fact that he’d been outed to the Wizarding World the same way he had been by Rita Skeeter was more important. There were so many things that might have changed from that single event alone. Now, she was wondering if other assumptions she had made were true, and if those assumptions had had any unintended consequences, Voldemort’s recent inactivity being one of them.

She shook her head; this would bear thinking about some other time. Right now, she had to worry about her meeting with Harry later.

The rest of the day passed in the type of dazed blur that she had only previously ever felt while studying for her OWLs. It was a bit of a disaster. In Potions, Slughorn had seemed confused at the slightly off shade of her Wit-Sharpening potion. It hadn’t even been _that_ off - a single shade - but the professor had shaken his head and said in a disappointed tone, “The scarab beetles must not have been as finely ground as is your usual standard, Miss Dursley. Don’t worry, dear, I’m sure it’s just that you had no opportunity to practice over the holidays, being Muggleborn and all! Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, oh ho no! A few days to settle in should do it.” His pat on her arm rankled, and she’d had to grit her teeth through a polite nod.

Charms with Professor Flitwick had not been much better, and the free period after lunch where she usually exercised her magic or tried to relax was instead spent walking the castle; she’d had to resort to conjuring up little birds to keep her company in an effort to get rid of the antsiness building the closer it got to the end of the day. When it finally came to her last two classes, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, she let Rookwood sit beside her without making a remark. He seemed to have taken her female excuses at breakfast to heart, because in return, he didn’t say a word about her nervously tapping fingers, and when she fled the Runes classroom without a parting greeting, he didn’t even try to follow her.

Harry had agreed to meet her near the Magical Beings section of the library, which was extremely empty considering it was a Friday evening. Madam Pince didn’t blink an eye at her appearance, however, only giving her a short nod. When Hermione checked her watch, she saw that it was twenty past five; she was ten minutes early.

Now that she was waiting for him, she realised with dawning horror that she hadn’t planned what to say. It wouldn’t do to come right out with a, ‘Hey, Harry! Remember me, your best friend? Yeah, I was reborn as one of your _child-starving, bulldog-encouraging relatives._ How’s that for a lark, eh? And also, what the hell are you doing here?’

That was no way to speak to someone you hadn’t seen in over ten years, after all.

While she waited, she conjured up some more birds and absently set them to circling around her head. By the time a half hour had passed with no sign of any life in the library other than herself and dear Irma, she was considering aiming them at _Harry’s_ head. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“Okay!” a boy cackled, swinging himself into the chair across from her. “You’re not gonna believe this, but I was just propositioned out on the grounds! By an evil _spider!_ Intent on using my hair for some kind of birthing ritual!” 

He jabbed at the bird’s nest atop his head in emphasis, which Hermione noted with some alarm looked slightly burnt. 

“You’re late,” she growled, brandishing her wand threateningly at him. “You’ve got about ten seconds to come up with something more believable, or you _will_ be subjected to death by canary!”

Harry’s eyes grew in alarm and he put his hands up beside his head. “Erm… I had to get a ghost to show me the way? And he got me purposely stuck in a trick step?” He muttered something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like, “ _O, goddess of poultry._ ”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. With a sniff, the birds disappeared and she pocketed her wand. Harry slumped in relief, and shifted so that he was balancing on the back legs of his chair.

“Gosh, Dursley, you’re proper scary.”

“And that’s a surprise to you...why?” She raised an eyebrow. “By the way, you didn’t even stutter a little over my name. Well done, you!”

“Why would I stutter?” He cocked his head at her.

“Well, there’s me _being_ a Dursley, for one thing. They’re hardly your favourite family.”

“Gus certainly seems to not mind Dursleys,” he chirped in childish sing-song.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was so ridiculously relaxed and happy that she couldn’t even think of a retort. _Fair Hecate_. Up close, his face was so obviously Harry’s, from the wide green eyes mirrored in Gryffindor’s female prefect, to the strong nose similarly taken from their star Chaser, to the hint of jutting cheekbones under a layer of puppy fat. His hair wasn’t right, of course, and he didn’t have glasses, but he looked _so_ like the boy who had saved her from a troll, once upon a time, that she knew there must have been a silly grin on her face.

“Well, if you’re not going to go bonkers about me being a Dursley,” Hermione said practically, leaning forward, “which is entirely anticlimactic, by the way, we might as well move on. I’ve got so much to tell you! But you first: how did you get here?”

Harry was beginning to look a bit bewildered by her exuberance, but he still gave her a charmingly juvenile smile.

“Well,” he said, scratching his head, “the same way as anyone else, I suppose - I got on the Hogwarts Express from King’s Cross and took the train. And then us first years took boats over the lake, and saw the castle all lit up from afar! It’s really, really pretty like that.” He looked up, seeming dazed even by the mere memory. “And then the giant squid living in the lake had to come and save Sullivan Applebee from drowning when he fell in! What a dunce, really - did that happen to anyone when _you_ went on the boats?” The question was posed so earnestly that Hermione could only blink in response.

That was _not_ the answer she was expecting.

“Harry,” she began, wanting to scold him for taking the Mickey when they had so much to figure out, but he clapped his hands in delight before she could finish her sentence.

“No one except my mother will call me that! I like you already,” he said brightly. “Which is good, because Gus talks about you _a lot_. Don’t tell him I said that, though, not at least until third year when I'll know enough spells to hex him back. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

The admonition died on her lips, as did her smile, and she fell silent. It was slowly dawning on her that the garrulous child in front of her was looking at her with interest and even some knowledge, but no familiarity. 

Her tongue felt like sandpaper.

Licking her lips, she watched for his reaction as she slowly said, “Hermione Granger. Hermione _Jean_ Granger.”

Not a flicker of recognition flared in his eyes.

_Okay._

_You are a witch with a brain and some barmy experiences under your belt, Hermione._

_You are speaking to an eleven year old who seemingly has no idea that he looks almost exactly like your long-dead best friend, or that he’s got what amounts to basically his name._

_The possibilities here are straightforward._

_Possibility #1: Harry Potter is playing a very poor prank on you, and he’s going to be a deceased-man-cum-acromantula-fodder once he gives it up._ That just wasn’t right, though; Harry had always had more taste _and_ creativity than that.

 _Possibility #2: Henry Fawley is an amnesiac Harry Potter. He’s been resurrected from the dead and has universe-hopped his way over to the very same universe where you happened to be born as a Dursley._ Even less likely, but she included it for completeness.

_Possibility #3: Henry Fawley is Henry Fawley, an eleven year old boy who you are not about to interrogate into soiling himself._

As she absorbed that thought, she noticed that the child was starting to look quite nervous. Sighing, she added a postscript to the list.

_You are going to ask your questions very calmly, and then you are going to go and figure out what the hell is happening here without traumatising the poor child._

“Alright.” She was quite impressed with how even her voice was, and that she managed a strained smile. “I just have a few questions for you, Har- Henry. Fawley. Then I’ll let you go.”

Fawley returned her smile. “Erm, okay. Sure. Is that why you wanted to meet me? To ask me questions?”

She frowned. “Why would you have come if you had no idea why I wanted to meet you?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Fawley started, and suddenly he was looking like he was about to say something maddening, “when an older girl asks to have a clandestine rendezvous with you, you don’t say _no._ ”

Hermione abruptly felt sick.

“Gus says you meet them to hear what they have to say, and politely but firmly remind them that despite the fact you come from a good family, you’re much too young to be thinking about anything of the sort. He thinks I’m mature for my age-” he puffed out his chest, “-but I _am_ only eleven, and Mother and Father have always warned me about what can happen when someone walks around with a name like ours.”

“That is wrong on so many levels,” Hermione muttered, wiping a hand down her face. “Okay, fine. I want to know why you seemed shocked to see me at the feast.”

Fawley shifted uncomfortably. For the first time in the conversation, he looked away, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“Wasn’t shocked,” he mumbled. “Gus just talks about you a lot, is all.”

All of a sudden, he looked like he wanted to take a flying leap over the stacks and bolt. He was already leaning away now, eyes darting over to the library entrance.

“Are you sure that’s why? Your reaction was a little too much for it to be just that,” she insisted, trying to imitate the tone Jorie always used to bully her into obedience.

Fawley shrugged and Hermione slumped. Let it never be said that she couldn’t recognise a losing battle when she saw one. She tried to look reassuring as she said, “Never mind then, I just have one more question. Do any of these names sound familiar to you?”

She counted them off on her fingers for emphasis. “Harry James Potter. Majorie Dursley. Vernon Dursley. Ringing any bells?”

He shook his head quickly. “Nope. There’s the guy on the Wizengamot, but he’s Harry Charlus, not Harry James. Don’t know any of the Potters with a name like that, and if there was, I _would_ know since we’re related in a few places up the tree. And you’re the only Dursley I know.”

Bugger. “I guess the rest of my questions can wait then,” she voiced in reluctant acceptance. _Until after I’ve raided my disguised Gobblerum stash, at least._ “It’s nice to meet you, Fawley. Got any plans for the rest of the night?”

Fawley jumped to his feet, taking the out before she could snatch it back. 

“Yeah! I’ve got to run, I’m about to get my first tour of the Quidditch Pitch!” he jabbered, and he was once again cheerful. “Nice to meet you and all - now I know what Gus meant when he said you were scary brilliant but kinda crazy. Don’t worry, I don’t mind crazy friends, I _do_ talk to snakes, after all. You can even keep calling me Harry, if you want. See ya ‘round!”

It was times like these that Hermione wished she hadn’t been permanently ejected from the kitchens. A hot chocolate and something coated in sugar were definitely needed right about now.

. . .

**18th September, 1976**

**DADA Classroom, Hogwarts**

A fortnight later, as Hermione trudged to the DADA classroom sans-Rookwood for Defence Club, she felt like she was still reeling from her meeting with Fawley. She hadn’t tried to approach him again, but her eye was now always constantly on him whenever possible. Something just wasn’t _right_ there. It was driving her to obsession, which made her glad that the club was only open to second years and above. Some space was obviously needed, and a bit of indiscriminate hexing would make a suitable distraction.

Professor Rasmussen’s hosting of what was essentially a school-sanctioned free-for-all for the practice of whatever (legal and student-appropriate) magic one was learning outside of class was popular, and even at 10 o’clock on the third Saturday morning of term, a minimum of thirty students had shown up. When she entered the classroom, she saw that it was enlarged to roughly the size of her muggle primary school’s assembly hall and that all the usual suspects lingered near the walls, happily conversing.

A cluster of students near the big duelling platform at the front caught her eye as usual, and she moved to the opposite corner of the room where she would have a good view of them. The Marauders, Lily, and Snape had been the reason she’d joined up; it had been a fantastic opportunity for Subtle Stalking, making sure their magical development was progressing appropriately for the war she knew would be coming. Voldemort was quiet these days, after the Black Day Massacre and the sporadic attacks in her first couple of years at Hogwarts had mysteriously dropped off, but where he was involved, no news was often bad news. He was lurking out there somewhere, biding his time.

The sixth years’ presence at meets was not always consistent, but after the first few sessions Hermione found that there were many good reasons to attend even if they didn’t. Since her second year, she’d been using it to monitor her new body’s acclimatisation to magic, marking her improvement in variables such as the length of time she was able to hold certain spells, how many duels she was able to complete before exhausting herself, and which spells were more draining than others. Such things, she believed, would be a good indicator of when it would be a good time to go after the Horcruxes; she needed to be magically stronger than she currently was, and though she thought her theoretical knowledge was more than a match for the tasks she wanted to complete before seeking out the Order, she couldn’t very well collapse in the middle of a battle. She was quite fond of having all her limbs intact. 

Winnie, a fifth year Hufflepuff who also happened to be Hermione’s preferred duelling partner, waved at her when she walked through the doors, looking much too perky for the hour. As she made her way through the room, the Ravenclaw watched in studied fascination as Winnie greeted student after student from all four houses, her casual robes swaying around her elegantly. Her two closest friends in Hufflepuff, Dirk Creswell and Junius Prewett, looked somewhat smitten. 

Winnie Gillespie, Hermione decided, was wasted potential; if she wasn’t Muggleborn, she would have been destined for the Ministry.

“Hello Hermione.” Winnie came to a stop in front of her, bouncing on her toes. “Had a nice summer?”

“Winnie,” Hermione nodded. “It was fine. A bit boring, not being able to practice at home, but I managed. How about you?”

“Oh, it was wonderful.” The fifth year smiled, nudging Prewett in the side. “Junius let Dirk and I stay at his family’s place for a couple of weeks, it’s so fascinating living in a completely magical home.”

“No owls from the Ministry threatening to expel you or snap your wand,” Cresswell added. “Although the lack of a telly is criminal.”

“We’re working on it,” Prewett said, tapping his nose. “Muggles are proper inventive. Imagine - talking portraits being able to act out entire stories! Would be fab if we could get something like that in a bowl, like a Pensieve.”

“That _would_ be…fab,” Hermione agreed, trying not to wince at the slang which had, by her schooldays, been ancient. The other three made no indication that she sounded anything other than natural, so she counted it as a win.

“Managed to convince Rookwood to come to the Club yet?” Winnie asked as she began to pull her kinky hair into a fluffy ponytail. “I notice he’s always hanging around you, these days.”

Hermione shook her head. Rookwood never attended with her, not being of the athletic set, and she didn’t really mind; if he was to be a future Death Eater, she’d prefer if he had as little duelling experience as possible, thank you very much.

“Shame,” Prewett said. “I’ve heard he’s crazy creative, maybe he’d be interested in this little project of ours?” He looked at Hermione hopefully.

“I’ll mention it to him,” Hermione promised, returning his grin with a small one of her own. It was almost as if the universe itself had conspired to drop just the distraction she needed for her innovative yearmate right into her lap.

The three Hufflepuffs began to settle into OWLs talk, and Hermione let herself drift to the edges of the conversation until she spotted Professor Rasmussen striding briskly into the classroom, inclining her head to those who greeted her, of which there were many. Her iron hair was already snared in a tight bun, and as she counted the number of attendees, her lips quirked in satisfaction.

“Good morning all,” she greeted when she reached the duelling platform, her voice a clear projection carrying to every corner of the room. It wasn’t even necessary, which Hermione admired even more; when she entered the room, none dared speak over her. “I’m well pleased to see that we’ve still got a good number of you here, with a few new faces too. Welcome to Defence Club.”

“Any daring escapades to share since the last meet, Professor?” someone called from the crowd.

“Indeed I do, Mr. Potter,” Professor Rasmussen said with a nasty little grin. “Involving my husband and some renegade goblins, no less. However, this one’s certainly not appropriate for anyone under fifth year, so it’ll have to wait until we’re done here.”

“Aww, professor!” another person groaned.

“Now, now,” Rasmussen said knowingly, “you young ones won’t hear anything from _my_ lips. However, I shan’t say a thing if you were to hear of it in some other way. I’d hate to deprive Alastor of his young fanbase; it was quite entertaining watching him burn your admiring notes over breakfast.”

She began to pace. “Now, onto why we’re all really here. I know those of you who have stuck around for years are fairly sick of hearing this, but for the green ones, there is no art of duelling to be found here, so if you’re looking to practice your Two-Parry Takedown, you’re best off joining Professor Flitwick’s Duelling Club. Defence Club isn’t about sport duelling, it’s about defence duelling, hence the name. If any of you have come here under a misconception, you’re free to get on with your Saturday morning.” When no one moved, she continued.

“In Defence Against the Dark Arts, of course, you learn about the sport, and if you’ve been in any of my classes after third year, you’ll know I’m not shy about my opinion - absolutely pointless unless you’re planning to join the International Circuits, but the curriculum is mandated by the Ministry, so there’s not much else to be said about _that_. In this room, at this specific time, however, it is different. I teach what any competent Defence teacher calls the Efficiency Philosophy. Can someone please remind the rest of the room and our new members on what I mean by this?”

“Get ‘em in their bits, finish with one hit!” Frank Longbottom called out, earning a general chuckle.

“Admirable words to live by,” Rasmussen said wryly. “But your Head Boy has the gist of it. It only takes one spell to end a duel, but using magic is energy and using energy is exhausting. Ergo, any effort should be spent _only_ on either protecting yourself or someone else, incapacitating your opponent, or setting up a way to incapacitate your opponent. No flashy wand movements if you can help it, no unnecessary darting around if it’s possible to defend yourself from a secure place, and absolutely _no_ firing off whatever you can - as much as you can - if you don’t think it will hit. That’s not to say you cannot be creative; in fact, such a policy requires more creativity than most if you are facing an opponent who is even a little proficient at protecting themselves.”

She flicked her wand into her hand and started barking instructions. “Let’s start off the year with a simple tag-team tournament. Two to a team, one defending while the other attacks. Your aim is to find any hole you can in the other team’s defences, and exploit it without tiring yourself. You may partner as you wish; I will let you know if your skill levels don’t line up. Once your team loses a duel, sit out and we’ll eventually end up with a winner for the day. Mr. Longbottom, it would be cruel to inflict you on the rest of the student populace, so you’re refereeing with me.”

As Cresswell and Prewett began to move towards each other, Winnie raised an eyebrow at Hermione, who nodded easily enough. She’d never teamed up with the other girl, but she had fantastic reflexes and was a steady dueller, if a little predictable. They would be a balanced pair, actually: Hermione, who through consistent stretching of her magical muscles each night had achieved a respectable level of brute force on par with what she thought might be an excellent fifth year or a slightly-below-average sixth year, was still weaker than Winnie, who often tried her hand at battling seventh years. A bit of out-of-the-box thinking on Hermione’s part would see them easily through their respective year groups, and she was interested to see what damage the inability to train over the summer had wrought.

“Alright, into the duelling boxes you go, Headmaster Dumbledore would have my head if any of you were to be permanently maimed! Remember, I’ve put the spells in so you’ve got about sixteen feet squared per duel, and the wards will _not_ allow anything outside of the school curriculum up to seventh year. Get _creative_. You may begin as soon as the boxes’ barriers go up.”

Hermione and Winnie inspected their first opponents, Dianella Boot (who was in Hermione’s dorm) and Addison Avery Jr (a fourth year Slytherin). Boot looked somewhat resigned to what was sure to be the inevitable outcome of their duel - she had gone up against both girls enough times in the past - but Avery took them in with none-too-pleasant regard.

“I’ll attack for this one, you defend?” Winnie whispered hurriedly. Hermione nodded and readied her wand.

Immediately after the warded barricades went up, _Protego_ was on her lips. As the first charm that Rasmussen had taught in the Club, no one batted an eye when Hermione’s invisible shield blocked Avery’s Body-Bind Curse, but Longbottom gave an encouraging hoot when it briefly lit up under the light of the spell, showing itself to be intimidatingly solid and thick. Winnie followed this up from behind Hermione with a _Reducto_ , intending to shoehorn her way through Boot’s less-sturdy barrier. After the second _Reducto_ , it broke, and Boot wasn’t quick enough to throw it back up when a unison _Expelliarmus_ was shot from each of Winnie and Hermione’s wands. Their aim held true, and though Avery’s Leg-Locker also hit Winnie, causing her to hit the ground hard, she was still clutching her wand, and Avery was not. As he got to his feet, he scowled darkly and stalked to the edge of the room, not bothering to wait for his partner.

“Great work, Dursley, Gillespie!” Longbottom congratulated, deftly unlocking Winnie’s legs. “Let’s see if you can keep from getting hit next time though, the next hit might not be anything as nice as a Leg-Lock!”

Despite the fact that their next duel was against fifth years, it was even less of a challenge but far more entertaining. This time, Hermione was attacking and Winnie was defending, and it didn’t take long for Hermione to spot how Mary MacDonald’s shoelaces were loose behind Dorcas Meadowes’ formidable shield. 

“I’m going to get Mary with a Summoning Charm,” Hermione muttered in Winnie’s ear. “Get ready to disarm her.”

“What do you mean, you’re going to get her with a Summoning Ch-”

Hermione aimed. It was difficult to summon something as heavy as a person, especially with Hermione’s lowered capacity, but if they were already _falling_ … A Sticking Charm gluing Mary’s laces to the floor sent the girl tumbling, and Hermione muttered, “ _Accio_ Mary MacDonald’s tie.”

The poor girl was dragged past Dorcas’ shield and Winnie quickly dropped her own shield, disarming her. In the commotion, Hermione used another Sticking Charm to stick Dorcas’ wand to her robes, and when she went to pull it off, it went flying out of reach.

“Very fun,” Rasmussen praised over her glasses. “There’s a lesson in there, to be sure. Perhaps to ensure all your clothing is fixed securely about your person?”

Mary chuckled with a sheepish look on her face and yelped when Dorcas pinched her playfully. “Yes, Professor.”

“Dursley and Gillespie, you’re going against Cresswell and Prewett or Evans and McKinnon next, whoever wins that one,” Rasmussen ordered, and Winnie and Hermione exchanged grins.

“It’s funny,” Hermione confided in Winnie in a hushed tone as they waited, feeling strangely giddy, “I feel way less exhausted than I’m used to, and we’ve already had two duels!”

“Maybe you’ve gone through a growth spurt?” Winnie questioned. “I felt like that too after mine a year ago, it was amazing. Wish I’d get another one,” she added wistfully, “but I suppose we can’t all be Lucius Malfoys.”

Cresswell and Prewett finished their duel and came out the victors, and when the four faced each other in a bigger duelling box - now about twenty-six feet squared - they had gained a little audience.

“Scared, boys?” Winnie teased.

“Kinda,” Prewett admitted, cracking a smile at Cresswell. “You’re both terrifying.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. If that wasn’t a ploy to get them to underestimate the two, she didn’t know what was.

“Alright, go!” Longbottom called when the barriers went down.

Hermione was defending again whilst Winnie attacked, and this time, Hermione hurried backwards with the shield in front of her as quickly as she could until they were backed up against a wall. She didn’t trust that the boys were careless enough to overlook their unprotected back end, and while the Cushioning Charms the professor had cast on the walls remained, Prewett couldn’t do a thing to the stone to try and catch them off-guard. 

Winnie followed her, sounding surprised at first if the tone of her _Stupefy_ was anything to go by, but recovering quickly. Prewett aimed a spell above Cresswell’s shield, but to Hermione’s surprise, instead of speeding towards her, it conjured a large slab of stone in the air above them. 

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she yelled, “Winnie, _fall to the side!_ ”

Something she had noticed in Prewett and Cresswell’s previous duel was that they seemed to be primarily focused on the attacker, hoping to incapacitate them before they did the defender. With that in mind, she grit her teeth and did her best to keep her _Protego_ directed in front of Winnie as she dove as far as she could sideways.

Her shield held, but a scream from Winnie indicated that the _Reducto_ Prewett had followed the stone conjuration with had done some damage. A large stone fragment had smashed her shin, and the fifth year stared at her leg in horror.

“Winnie!” Cresswell exclaimed in dismay, but Prewett was now turning to Hermione. Fairly confident that they’d not do anything to their friend while she was already hurt, Hermione’s shield reappeared in front of herself. She had to make this quick while only one of them was focused.

Prewett was fast. “ _Redu-_ ”

Hermione quickly dispersed her _Protego_ and dropped to the ground. “ _Defodio,_ ” she incanted, shooting off her best Gouging Charm. 

As Prewett recognised the spell, his jaw dropped, but it was not aimed at him. Instead, it hit the ground in front of him and Cresswell, creating a tiny crater which caused both boys to lose their footing. Prewett’s spell went flying, disappearing into the wards of the duelling box, and Hermione, still on the ground, cast two _Immobulus_ charms in quick succession, not sure if she’d be able to do anything stronger than that after the Gouging.

Prewett and Cresswell froze, able only to blink when their wands clattered to the ground.

“Well _done_!” Longbottom boomed. “Have you just gone through a growth spurt, then, Dursley?”

“I must have,” Hermione said ruefully, although inwardly she was delighted. She’d finally be able to get off her arse and get things _done._ Winnie cheered from behind her a little wearily, and Hermione quickly turned to help her up.

“Are you okay to stand on your leg?” she asked, looking down. The leg looked rather nasty; it would definitely need a trip to Madam Pomfrey.

“No, no,” Professor Rasmussen said, marching over, “no standing on that. You’ll go straight up to the Hospital Wing. Cresswell, Prewett!” Having been released from her charms, both boys immediately took one of Winnie’s arms.

“Sorry,” Hermione heard Prewett say to Winnie as they went off.

“Don’t be silly, you got me! Good luck for the last duel, Hermione!”

“Let’s take a break for lunch, everyone,” Rasmussen announced once the trio were gone. Hermione hadn’t even realised it was already nearing midday, and with that realisation came the sudden exhaustion that she had been waiting for. “I’m sure our last group of duellers need something to fill them up. Anyone who’d like to see the winners for today’s tournament can meet back here at 1 o’clock sharp.” 

The light in the classroom glittered off of her glasses as she looked first at Hermione, and then over to where James Potter and Remus Lupin had just finished their own duel.

“I, for one, am quite interested in seeing the results.”

. . .

**18th September, 1976**

**Great Hall, Hogwarts**

Hermione had walked up to the Great Hall alone, feeling rather exhilarated despite the fatigue in her muscles. It wasn’t as bad as it had been after previous Defence Club sessions, despite the fact that she had expended much more magic this time. Was this what it felt like to get the growth spurt high? From what she had heard, it would settle after two or three weeks, which meant she had experienced her spurt very recently in the holidays, but having not noticed her spurt at all as Hermione Granger, she didn’t have any previous experience to draw from.

As she munched on a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches, trying to estimate what spells she might be capable of now - specifically, whether she’d finally be capable of channeling enough magic through runes to secure a Hogwarts founder’s pretty tiara in a container, at least until she had a means of getting rid of it - she felt eyes on her. Looking around, she saw it: Lily Evans was staring at her, sitting a little away from where James and Remus seemed to be regaling Sirius and Peter with an animated rundown of their duels, seeing as the other two had been absent.

When their eyes met, Lily gave her a bright smile and glided over.

“Hello,” she dimpled, sitting across from Hermione on the empty bench. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced before, I’m Lily Evans. You’re Hermione Dursley, right?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied slowly.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Lily laughed, “I’m hardly scary. I just wanted to say that your duels today were fantastic.”

“Um, thank you.” 

“I’ve always said that when it comes to thinking, native wizards make the box but Muggleborns sit on top of it. Or leap off it.” She gave a self-deprecating little chuckle. “Mostly, anyway, I’m hardly creative. That was more, um, Snape’s department. Back when we were friends.”

Hermione hummed.

“Um, yes, you might’ve heard that we stopped being friends after our OWLs, I think everyone did. Probably high time, to be honest, his friends aren’t that nice about...witches like us. Everyone said it was the right thing to do, anyway, and since I’m dating James now, it would have been awkward if we’d still been friendly-”

What a strange way to have her first real interaction with Harry’s mother. Everyone had always mentioned how charming, vivacious, and kind she was; no one had ever mentioned that she was an _over-sharer._

Then again, maybe her perception of what sixteen-year-olds were meant to be like was quite skewed.

She waited for Lily to finish speaking, and then said as kindly as she could, “Were you after anything in particular?”

“Oh!” Lily blushed, and the rosiness of her cheeks, unlike Rookwood, complemented her hair, making her lovelier for it. “Yes, sorry, I never can stop once I get going. But since Gillespie’s in the Hospital Wing, you’ll probably need a partner for your duel against James and Remus, right?”

“That’s true,” Hermione ceded. “You’d like to partner up with me?”

“If you’ll have me!” Lily beamed. “James is a darling, of course, but sometimes he just has such _old-fashioned_ ideas about things! Witches aren’t as fast as wizards, witches aren’t as strong as wizards, witches should only learn to duel in case their man isn’t there to help them out... I mean, it’s the seventies, for Merlin’s sake! It gets so tiring, and we fight about it _all_ the time! Just the other day, we were having a debate about...” She trailed off when she saw Hermione’s expression. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Bother. Ignore all that, I’d just love to help you prove him wrong!”

Hermione shrugged. If James really was as she said, it would be fun, and they might knock a bit of maturity into him, too. “Sure.”

“Brilliant!” Lily stood up and mimicked sending air kisses at both Hermione’s cheek. “I’ll finish up lunch and come over and grab you when you’re done. See you in a bit!” When the redhead rejoined her friends, Hermione heard a loud, “Conspiring with the enemy, were you?”

Her watch told her she had about twenty minutes before one, so she began to finish up, absently considering Lily. It was when she was biting on the last of her second sandwich that she looked up to see Fawley hurtling into the hall, and the bread stuck in her throat. On his heels was Regulus Black, and they were heading right for her.

“Dursley!” Fawley exclaimed, skidding to a stop. His eyes were wild, and his hair was even messier than usual. 

“Henry!” Regulus sounded confused and a little frightened. He opened his mouth to say something, but Fawley cut right across him.

“I need to know,” he said in a small voice, “who Ronald Weasley is.”

Hermione took in his trembling hands and the way he clutched his rumpled robes, and stood up abruptly, going over to the Gryffindor table. The Marauders and Lily were laughing, but they stopped and gave her quizzical smiles when she arrived.

“Hermione?” Lily questioned, her voice lilting in concern.

“I’m sorry, Lily, but I won’t be able to make the duel,” she said stiffly. “Something’s come up. Can you let Professor Rasmussen know I can’t make it?”

“What has the little bugger done this time?” Sirius crowed, presumably having noticed his brother’s presence in the hall, while James cried, “You can’t do that, we were getting ready to flatten you! You can’t be that scared! We’ll even go easy on you, if you want.”

“Lily,” Hermione repeated, when the girl frowned.

“Yes, of course, Hermione. Are you okay? I’m a prefect, you know, I can help…?”

“It’s fine.” She stormed back over to where the two first years waited apprehensively.

“Right,” Hermione said sharply, drawing up every ounce of authoritative air she had gained over her multiple lives as she looked down at Fawley. “You’re going to tell me everything, and you’re not going to _lie_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as much to say about this chapter, unless you were hoping for a big, sappy Harmony reunion in which case… sorry! I, too, would be mad at myself.


	6. Harry's Memories

**18th September, 1976**

**Great Hall, Hogwarts**

Harry (or Henry, to most everyone outside of his mother and his own solitary self) considered himself a brave boy. Not the _bravest_ , to be sure, else he would've been offered Gryffindor, but he wasn't a _sniveller_. After all, there was a certain fearlessness to be found in being an experimental potioneer; one never knew when one was about to blow their fingers off or grow an eye-wateringly garish beard a la Dumbledore. That was why, later, he attributed the following thought to his excusable state of panic given the situation:

If someone let a Boggart loose in the Great Hall right at that moment and shoved it towards him, he wouldn't have been at all surprised to see it morph into an exact replica of Dursley as she stared him down, a steely cast on her face and her hands firm on her hips.

"O-kay."

He was dismayed when it almost came out as a stutter. How did one stutter over two syllables?

He quickly peeked at Regulus, but the other boy didn't even seem to notice; he was watching Dursley with his head cocked, a pose that he employed often enough that Harry had privately wondered after their first few days if maybe he had some sort of neck condition. Whatever it was, the look on his face was strange: there was confusion, which he understood - he hadn't tried to explain after his Knockout, instead hurtling away as soon as he regained consciousness, needing to find Dursley - but also… he had a look which was mighty similar to that one his father had when he was trying to work out a particularly difficult case on the Council.

Dursley wasn't paying any attention to Regulus, however; she was focused wholly on Harry, who tried not to cringe. It was hard when a fourth year was looking fit to dissect him like a billywig, though. Even Regulus' big brother and his friends had, from what he'd seen a table away, seemed a bit taken aback by her.

A lock of errant hair fell into his eyes. When he tried to brush it away with a hand which, to his horror, was slightly _trembling_ , Dursley latched onto the movement, and with a bit of a huff, she let her posture fall a little.

"I'm not going to _hurt_ you," she griped, sounding even more irritated in the process as her head swiveled around. He opened his mouth to fib that, no, he hadn't really thought that she would, but she made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "This is a conversation we need to have somewhere else. Come on."

Thankfully, his voice sounded much less squeaky this time when he said, "Alright."

Dursley marched out of the Great Hall looking distracted, and Harry followed mutely behind, glancing at Regulus out of the corner of his eye. His Slytherin friend didn't seem to hesitate, able to match her stride for stride on account of his unfairly long legs. He supposed that there was a reason he had grown such a stiff spine, having met Walburga Black once before; if that was the trade he needed to make for Regulus-grade valour, he thought he'd prefer to remain scared witless.

Dursley led them through a maze of corridors that Harry stopped trying to pinpoint after the fifth turn, and when they finally came to a halt, he didn't recognise their location at all.

"Where are we?" he asked, both curious and wary.

"Muggle Studies corridor," his companions answered in unison. Dursley started out of whatever daze she had been in.

"You followed us," she said, frowning at Regulus. It was as if she hadn't even realised he'd been walking right beside her.

Regulus shrugged elegantly. "I deserve to know what's happening. Henry literally _just_ passed out in front of me and then-" his side glance at Harry was full of accusation, "-then this idiot got up and _ran off_. Without a word of explanation at all. I want to make sure he's okay."

Harry shifted, ears turning pink.

His ears burned further when Dursley asked, "Is _that_ what happened?" She sounded surprised, and then he found himself under the scrutiny of _two_ perturbed expressions.

"It wasn't that bad," he swallowed. The walking had helped him calm down, and he thought that maybe he'd overreacted to the whole thing _just_ a little. "It's- it's happened before."

Dursley looked between the pair of them, exasperation plain on her face. "Regulus," she said, sounding much nicer than she had before, "I completely understand. The thing is, I think that what Harry and I need to talk about is… it's quite private. Don't worry, I'll take Henry to the Hospital Wing to get checked out after we're done here." When her voice lilted slightly, taking the same tone as the one used by the Healers in St. Mungo's Children's Ward, Harry internally groaned; Regulus was the most grown-up eleven year old he knew, and he wouldn't like that at all.

However, Regulus only turned to him and asked, "Is that okay? You've not been long acquainted with her, after all."

"I'll be fine," Harry tried to reassure him, not knowing if it was true. "I'll go to the nurse after."

"Swear it on Salazar's soggy socks." It was said in the same haughty tone that Regulus used for all activities of life, and Harry's felt his face split into a grin.

"I promise on Helga's honking Viking horn."

"Fine." Regulus gave Dursley a short incline of his head. "I'll see you at dinner then."

Harry was nodding his agreement when a shout came down the corridor.

"Dolly!"

Turning the corner was Regulus' brother, Sirius. He strode towards them, gaze sweeping over the trio.

"Black Number Two." Dursley pinched the bridge of her nose. "Did I send out an invitation or something without realising it? Your brother was _just_ leaving."

"Now, now, Dolly," Sirius began as he got closer, "you looked pretty worked up there so I thought I'd better investigate, especially since you're blowing off your duel with Jamie boy. What could you possibly want with my little brother and James' strange little Mini-Me, I wonder?" His alert eyes darted between the Ravenclaw and Regulus, and his voice was heavy with some kind of overtone that Harry didn't understand.

"Because I think you're worried about your brother, I won't hex you for whatever it is you're implying," Dursley growled.

Sirius nodded, unfazed. "That's right, I'm worried. Don't go jinxing him two weeks into his first term, no matter what the bugger did. If he did something to you, take it to his big brother, okay? The kid can't even do a Wingardium Leviosa yet!"

Harry exchanged a glance with Regulus, who looked resigned.

When Dursley heard what Sirius had to say, Harry was perplexed to see that she deflated almost instantly, looking tired and a bit sad. She didn't say anything in return, and Sirius began to look discomfited, dropping all sense of casualness.

"Look, just explain the situation and we'll be fine, okay? Maybe I'm overreacting, maybe not, but no one knows a _thing_ about you, Dursley. When I see you stomping around like that with my brother in tow and his friend looking all panicky, it makes sense that I'd jump to conclusions, doesn't it?"

"I get it, Black," Dursley sighed. "Really, Regulus is just here as Henry's friend. To be absolutely clear, I'm not mad at _either_ of them. I'm… worried. About Henry."

"It's true," Regulus said, sounding a bit annoyed. "Something's happened and Henry needs Dursley's help. I was just _leaving_ so they could talk in private." His eyes narrowed. "You know you're not meant to speak to a lady like that, Sirius."

Sirius made a face and slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in. "My sincerest apologies, Lady Dolly," he said. Harry thought he sounded not very contrite at all but Dursley just waved him off. "Come on, Reggie, let's leave 'em to it then if you're sure it's all fine."

Regulus nodded and the two went off, the younger brother turning to wave one last time at Harry.

Dursley shook her head at their disappearing backs. "Some things never change," she said without explanation.

"He's a bit of a git, isn't he? Regulus' brother, I mean."

Dursley, to his surprise, gave him a small smile. "That's just who he is. He's a good boy, and I'm glad he's going out of his way to take care of Regulus."

She gestured into one of the dusty classrooms further down the corridor. It was the best of the ones they passed, but that really wasn't saying much; none of them looked like they'd been used since before Professor Binns (who he hated on principle, seeing as he never did anything interesting) had died, and he sneezed as he accidentally inhaled a chunk of dust.

"Urgh!"

Dursley waved her wand, casting a _Scourgify_ at a desk and two chairs and shutting the door. "Alright," she said, her lips pursed so tightly they almost disappeared, "let's hear it, then. How do you know that name?"

He'd almost forgotten why he was there. "You do know who Ronald Weasley is, then?"

There was a flicker in his mind's eye - a tall boy with flaming orange hair and a body made of more limb than anything else, older than even Regulus' brother, slumped around a bonfire. He, Harry, looked out of the eyes of someone running through some sort of complicated plan, each stage sounding more daring than the next, and a fish was being grilled over the fire by the last of the trio, who the redhead addressed with loving crassness: _Hermione Granger, what the ever-loving fuck would we do without you?_

"I do." Harry wondered when Dursley ever smiled; the last time he'd seen her do it had been during their weird conversation in the library two weeks ago, which just wasn't _right._ "Before I tell you anything, Fawley, you need to tell me how you came to know that name. Is it related to the fainting that Regulus mentioned?"

He hesitated for a second, gnawing on his bottom lip.

"I call them Knockouts - because they feel exactly like a Knockback Jinx, except I black out for a few seconds and wake up on the floor. I've been getting them for about a year." He sighed, tracing the grain of the desk with his finger. "Mother's been getting me to see all these different Healers, but no one's ever found out what's going on. I wasn't too bothered before; they just kind of happen, and my father got Cushioning Charms warded into all of my clothes so the only real problem is if I ever hit my head on something. I've got a head like a bludger, so it hasn't really been an issue."

"That most certainly _is_ an issue!" Dursley burst out. "What if you cracked your head open?"

"Bludgers don't crack," he joked, but hastily added when he saw her face, "It's really okay! The Cushioning Charms in my collar and the back of my robes blow up like balloons if I fall backwards. So far, a 100% success rate!"

Dursley obviously knew you couldn't argue with statistics like that, because she didn't try to argue with him. "Fine," she said, looking skyward. "Go on."

His nose scrunched up as he remembered how he'd been feeling less than an hour ago, Regulus standing over him in alarm. "Usually when I wake up, I feel all funny in my head and my stomach. It's like… when you wake up, and you _know_ you had some sort of brilliant dream but you can't remember, you know? Then you forget about it and get on with your day."

Every other time had been somewhat like that. The one he'd had on his tenth birthday - that was the first one - had ended with him feeling disoriented yet not really any different, but the one at the Ministry's Christmas ball last year had felt like a fantastic punch to the head. There had been a string of varying intensities after that. He'd had one right after the Transfiguration Tourney, too, and that had been the strongest Knockout feeling of all; yet after each one, he woke with the sense that he had forgotten something that he could never retrieve, no matter how much he wanted to.

"That's sort of what happened at the feast; I got the Knockout feeling when I heard your name. It's weird because… well, you already know Gus tells me about you, but when you were sitting right _there_ … it was like suddenly remembering little bits of a dream. I got the funny feeling and I just _knew_ I'd seen you before somewhere."

Dursley was quiet and still, fingers curled into a fist that was almost white. He eyed it uncertainly. "Should I go on…?" he trailed off.

"Please do," she choked out.

"Right." He tried to dislodge the lump in his throat. "Erm. This afternoon was different. This time I _remembered_ … and it wasn't just one dream. It was a bunch of dreams, one after the other. There was this big, gold necklace with a boy coming out of it, saying some really nasty things. There was a cave, too, and a sword in a lake. A huge dragon, and I was _riding_ it. And… and there was someone saying something about Regulus," he whispered.

_That's a rotten fate Regulus Black got, turning into an Inferius._

"The last part," he concluded in a rush, trying not to think of the boy he was becoming best mates with as a rotting, eyeless horror, "was about a girl named Hermione Jean Granger, like that name you said in the library. I was in that dream, too, just kind of watching, and there was a redhead whose name was Ronald Weasley. That's how I heard the name."

Dursley was silent for so long that Harry looked up from where he'd been inspecting his shoes. He shrunk when he saw her expression.

"I swear I'm not crazy! I just… this is the first time since this all started where I remembered something, and it was really scary to dream about all of that, and I thought you might be able to help me because it's too much of a coincidence that you knew the name in my dream - that the girl has the same name as you - that she… kinda looks like you…"

"I know." Was she… was she about to start _crying?_ "It's too much of a coincidence. But you're not crazy."

"You… you believe me?"

"I believe you, Harry," Dursley said with a watery smile blooming on her face. "I've heard of crazier things. And I've a few theories." She abruptly stood up, swiping at her eyes. "Would you like to hear a story, Harry?"

If she really did start crying, Gus would hunt him down, so declining didn't seem like a viable option. His silence didn't really seem to matter, though. She pointed her wand at the classroom door, muttered something he couldn't quite catch, and then began to pace, composing herself more quickly than he expected.

"There was another name I mentioned in the library. Harry James Potter. Do you remember?" Harry definitely _did_ remember. The similarity to his own name had not gone unnoticed; they even had the same middle name, though he didn't think she knew that. "Harry was a… a house-elf."

"House-elves don't have names like Potter," he pointed out, feeling slightly affronted on behalf of his distantly related kin.

Dursley only nodded as if she hadn't said something so ridiculous. "Nevertheless, Harry was an elf. When he was younger than you, he lived with his Muggle aunt and uncle, and they treated him very badly indeed. He had to do all of their chores, cook food for them - sometimes they didn't even let him eat what he made - and his cousin was a great big bully. Until he got his Hogwarts letter, he didn't know that all the strange things he could do were because of magic, and he never had any friends until he went off to Hogwarts."

Well, that was just silly. "House-elves don't get Hogwarts letters, either!" She ignored that, too.

"As he grew older and learned more about magic, he found out that, for a few reasons, he was a special boy. And because he was so special, lots of strange things happened to him when he quite wanted to have a normal life with nice friends and lots of good food, and many people wanted him to do everything that they told him to do."

Dursley stopped her pacing to tilt her head at him. "You're from an old family, Harry," she said softly. "Surely you know how some families treat their house-elves?"

"D'you mean… like, being mean to them and stuff?"

"That's exactly what I mean," Dursley praised him, giving him that watery smile again, and Harry couldn't help but feel warm in his chest. "Lots of people have house-elves, and no matter how hard a house-elf works, or how helpful they are, some owners will reward them with a kick. Or better yet, they'll completely ignore that a house-elf might want or think about things _other_ than doing what their owner tells them to do."

"I've never heard of house-elves wanting other things than to do chores," Harry said with a doubtful look.

"It's not surprising; but you're smart, Harry. You won that Transfiguration Tourney at the Ministry, after all. Tell me this, where do house-elves come from?"

Harry frowned in concentration; it was commonly known that there was nothing _to_ be known about house-elves. They were just part of the furniture, really. "They just sort of appear, don't they?"

"Surely baby house-elves come from somewhere," Dursley prodded. "Nothing comes from nothing."

He thought it through slowly; it sounded a bit like she was talking about Transfiguration. "Even when you conjure, the object is being taken from somewhere. It doesn't _really_ appear out of thin air. Most of the time, anyway," he said. "So house-elves… have families of their own?"

"Exactly so. If they have families, they must be doing things other than housework and chores, right? Who's to say they don't have their own desires and feelings?" She dropped her voice. "I'll let you in on a secret, Harry. I've _met_ elves who don't do chores, and even ones who don't _like_ doing chores."

"Here at Hogwarts?" Harry breathed, alight with the idea of seeing such an unheard-of thing.

Unfortunately, Dursley shook her head.

"Not here. They're… very far away. But we've gone on a bit of a tangent." Her pacing resumed. "Harry the house-elf had to do lots of things people wanted him to do, some of them quite dangerous, even if they seemed like a marvellous adventure at the time. Even after he did the very biggest thing anyone could ask of him - the _very_ biggest - they still wouldn't leave him alone. What would you have done if you were Harry, Harry?"

There was a little note of teasing in her voice now, he realised, but he still thought about it seriously, making a face as he considered the situation. "I'd tell them to bugger off, wouldn't I? And leave, but maybe take Mother and Father with me." He paused. "Maybe Regulus, too, if he could stop being such a big stuffy-pants. Gus would never come, but I'd let him visit me if he'd stop trying to make me come back."

Harry realised he'd never seen anyone look at him the way Dursley was looking at him now. Not even his mother had looked at him like- like her heart was bursting, because he'd gotten every question on an exam right, or because he'd won a hundred tourneys, or because he'd greeted every single person at the ball correctly and hadn't managed to accidentally insult a single one of them.

"That's precisely what Harry the house-elf did. He had to make some tough decisions, and he decided that the only way to get everyone to leave him alone was to free himself, even though he had grown up thinking he was always meant to help; and so he moved away from all of these people who were pestering him, and in the process had to leave behind his best friend, Ronald Weasley, who had been by his side almost the whole time he'd had to do all of those dangerous things."

"The redhead boy."

"The very same. Ron was a good friend, but he wasn't a house-elf. He didn't help Harry do all of those dangerous things because people wanted him to do it; he did it because he loved Harry, and nothing more. So he didn't worry himself about people bothering him like they did Harry. Thus, Harry went almost all alone, save for one person."

"Hermione Jean Granger?"

"He wasn't really a house-elf," Dursley said, her smile quite genuine now. Harry refrained from rolling his eyes. He knew what allegories and metaphors were; he wasn't a baby. "He was a person who just wanted to make people happy, but sometimes he forgot to do it for himself. Hermione went with him to make sure he didn't."

After Dursley concluded her tale, Harry absorbed it all in the quiet of the room. She'd said he was smart, but his head was spinning and it felt a bit like it was going to explode, especially when he realised there was really only one conclusion for it, as his hero Detective Auror Blackmar would say.

"So since you know who this Ronald and Hermione are from my dream, Harry must've been someone who really lived, then. D'you think I could be a Seer?"

Flashes of marvelous possibilities ran through his mind, each more fantastic than the next -

"No," Dursley said with absolute conviction. "Divination's all dragon dung. There's something else at play here."

Oh. His bottom lip was threatening to stick out, but he clamped down on the urge; that was disappointing, but it was at least reassuring that she seemed to know what she was talking about.

"I don't know how but…" She looked like she was steeling herself.

His brain made the connection with a _snap_ so unexpected that he almost sprung to his feet.

"You're Hermione Jean Granger!"

It took two seconds to say it, and another two seconds for the questions to begin to form, each trying to consolidate this astonishing fact with what he already knew about her.

She blinked. "Yes. Those memories you described, they're all things that happened to my friends and I."

All of a sudden, she wasn't just Gus' latest obsession; she was a _riddle_.

"You're not old enough to be her though. And why are you calling yourself Dursley?" He paused as something occurred to him, thinking it over. "Is it a disguise you're using so all those people who were bothering Harry wouldn't follow you? If it is, Harry must've come with you. Where is he, then? If he's got the same name as me, he must be an alright bloke!"

Relief and ecstasy crashed over him, and he leaned forward, mind whizzing about with the possibilities. Knockouts didn't seem like such a bad thing if there was a _mystery_ involved.

Dursley took a deep breath and threw herself back into her chair. "Harry," she told him, her left eye twitching. "I think… I think _you're_ Harry."

. . .

**18th September, 1976**

**Muggle Studies Corridor, Hogwarts**

In retrospect, breaking the news to Harry like that had been one of those very bad ideas she'd managed to avoid for many years.

She tried to convince herself it had been the right thing to do that night when she wearily pulled herself into bed, but her only (weak) justification was that she'd been cursed with long-honed instincts that saw _that_ face with _that_ expression, and felt the need to give an answer. Any answer. The very best answer, if it was available to her.

And this seemed, to her, to be the greatest answer. What had she said about Possibility #2? That it was unlikely?

She should have known such wasn't in the vocabulary of the universe when it came to her best friend. If _she_ had managed to be reborn as a Dursley, what was to say that this was impossible? At that point, surely sanity had fled the trajectory of her life in utter exasperation.

Yet, Harry would reproach her many times later that she might have tried to be a bit more… tactful about the reveal. The first sign that the decision to confide in Harry right away had been the wrong one was when he broke out into wild snickering. Hermione waited patiently as each peal of childish laughter bounced off the walls of the empty room.

"Cool!" he cackled. "So I'm an ace dragon-riding wizard?"

Hermione, who in the moment had not understood how ridiculous she must have sounded with the declaration she'd just made, stared at him in disbelief. "Did you not listen to that whole story? Harry - you - had a _hard_ _life_!"

"Well, no I didn't," Harry said, calming down somewhat, though he hiccuped every now and then with that impish smirk on his face. "I've had a very nice life, actually. My parents certainly never made _me_ cook something and then stop me from eating it. Plus, I've been Henry Fawley as long as I can remember. I think I'd know if I'd gone on a bunch of heroic adventures with you before!"

"But that's my point," Hermione tried to reason. "You've lost your memories, and these 'Knockouts' are you _gaining them back_."

"That doesn't explain how I've lived eleven years of life as a Fawley, or why they only started a year ago, or why I haven't _seen_ anything during them until now."

He had a point, and she should have been horribly embarrassed to have been shown up in the art of Critical Thinking and Not Obsessing Over The Option You're Hoping Is Correct by a mere child. If her smile was a little pained, well, she reasoned to herself that _this_ boy hadn't lived through half of the barminess that made up her life. If he wasn't her Harry, anyway, which she was unwilling to entertain the possibility of.

"I agree with you that something is going on here, though," Harry said. "This is just like something from the Detective Auror Blackmar books! We've _got_ to figure this out. You didn't answer my question before, you know - where's Harry?"

"He…" She faltered. "He died."

"Oh." He wilted, but just as quickly his eyes grew bright. "Well, he really _can't_ be me then. You don't have to be sad; he might still be around! Maybe I _am_ a Seer, and this vision - your memories - they're because of Other Harry trying to communicate through me from the afterlife! That would be _brilliant_."

"You're more likely to have a third foot than a third eye," she shot him down with utter finality. She'd had enough of divination and prophecies and Seers for every life she'd had so far and _then_ some.

He shrugged. "If you think _I'm_ your dead friend, you're perfectly capable of believing wild theories without much of a basis to go on. Not very Detective Auror Blackmar-y; ever heard of Occam's Razor?"

"You being an amnesiac Harry _is_ the simplest explanation," she argued, feeling a little foolish. As soon as the words left her mouth, she realised that it wasn't really, because Harry Fawley didn't _know_ that she had lived lives in multiple universes, or that she was over ten times older than him. She'd at least known that telling him _that_ would be jumping the gun, given that there was a Legilimens in the school that she was not ready to have this conversation with, lest he poke his beaked nose into her business.

"It's really not." Harry echoed her thoughts with a shake of his head, as if to say _Get a load of this crackpot!_ "But let's not rule that out either, I suppose; Detective Auror Blackmar doesn't do that until there's real evidence to the contrary." He straightened. "I guess if he died, I could even be his reincarnation, loads of religions believe in that! That doesn't mean I _am_ him, but we could have the same recycled _soul_ , right?"

It was at this point that Hermione realised that Gus' particular brand of ingenuity (and insanity) had been passed through his mother's line.

"Or - okay, this is my last idea - maybe his ghost is _possessing_ me! Ghosts can do that if they've been In Between for long enough, I heard Walburga Black threatening her husband with that one the first time I met her."

Hermione was reluctant to base any theory on anything an insane witch had said, but ghostly capabilities had been rather low on her list of research priorities in her first universe, so it was entirely possible. It also not only resembled her Harry's Horcrux-possession too much to sit comfortably with her, but harkened back to that wisp of a conversation she'd had so long ago with Elder Algy and Pompey: _I is meaning that he is being stuck between the Now and the After_.

They'd _said_ Harry wasn't a ghost, but he'd been - and perhaps was still - in limbo. Was she such a horrible friend that she'd forgotten how she'd been sent on this blasted journey in the first place, yet again?

"It's possible," she admitted, though she was stricken with guilt at the idea of it. "You can talk to snakes, you mentioned that before. As far as I know, within the bounds of Britain only Harry and Voldemort have ever been able to do that in living memory."

"Voldemort can talk to snakes?" He looked shocked, and a little uneasy. "I didn't know that."

"I thought everyone did," Hermione frowned. "Isn't that why it's so looked down upon?"

"It's not looked down upon!" Harry exclaimed. "I mean, I don't go on and on about it, but that's just because it doesn't really matter. Yeah, most people think it's barmy, but no one gives me trouble over it. Mother even says it's something to be proud of, and she's a Hufflepuff like me."

Why was she always finding things out at the most inopportune times? She _really_ needed to have a sit-down with a history book and a few years' worth of Daily Prophets.

First, however:

"We need to see the house-elves," Hermione said, unwillingness colouring her tone. "I think they might know something that might be able to help us."

"What could _they_ do?"

"House-elves helped me get here," she said without explaining what 'here' really meant. "They might be able to at least help us rule some of these possibilities out. I wasn't just making up the house-elf thing when it came to Harry; there was some special magic going on, and Harry was very friendly with the elves. They might know something about how you're getting his memories."

"Getting friendly with _elves_ ," she heard Harry mutter under his breath. " _Super_ Detective Auror Blackmar-y."

He practically vibrated with enthusiasm as he demanded to know where Hogwarts would be hiding house-elves. It was lucky that Henry Fawley was such a cute kid, she thought. Being hated by house-elves was something Harry had never had an issue with.

. . .

**18th September, 1976**

**Kitchens, Hogwarts**

" _Wicked_ ," Harry breathed, eyes glowing like two gold Galleons. " _This_ is how you get into the kitchens? It's on the way to the Hufflepuff commons!"

Hermione smiled and gestured to the painting, trying to hide her nervousness. "You can do the honours. Just the little pear, now. He gets a bit testy if you try tickling any of the other fruit."

" _Wicked_ ," he repeated. "You're so cool!"

It was the first time over four lives she'd ever heard herself described with such a word, never mind the level of enthusiasm. She flushed a bit in pleasure, a bit bewildered but amused at her own reaction.

"This is probably Hogwarts' worst-kept secret," she pointed out. "Everyone in the upper years of Hufflepuff knows it. You probably would have been shown how to do this later in the term, anyway."

That was one memory still easily retrieved from her Hogwarts years: a mention of the tradition from a hysterically amused fifteen-year-old Susan Bones as she recounted to the DA how one of the Hufflepuff first years had abused the privilege of a constant supply of deliciously spicy dishes - to the point where the inevitable consequence of such delinquency had rendered the first year boys' bathroom inaccessible for an entire afternoon and evening.

"Yeah, but _I'll_ already know the secret and the others won't," Harry grinned. "That makes _me_ cool."

She shook her head with a quiet laugh. "Just open it, Fawley. Let's get this over and done with."

Was she silly to be bracing herself so carefully for this encounter? Perhaps, but she was determined to get the answers they needed, and she'd not be so _hurt_ this time if the elves kicked her out again.

Harry reached up to tickle the pear, careful not to brush the apple beside it. As he did so, it began to vibrate in silent giggles, the shaking growing faster and faster until, with a _pop_ , the pear had disappeared; in its place was a large, smooth green handle, which he beamed at.

" _Wicked_ ," he said a third time, and then, with a faster motion than Hermione had thought him capable of (and really, she shouldn't have been so surprised), he flung the door wide open.

"Wait!" Hermione yelped. "Let me go in first, just in case-" _-they're hostile_ never made it out of her mouth.

Harry bolted right in, eager to see what mysteries of Hogwarts were to be laid before him. It was obvious, however, that he hadn't at all expected this.

The kitchens sat, stock still. No elves exclaimed in excitement, or ran up to greet them, or offered them treats. Instead, the elves stood silently, their heads swung towards the two newcomers. To a one, their eyes bulged and their ears flapped in discomposure, the action causing their tea-towel togas to ripple from the air at the same, agitated pace.

Hermione wondered if they were about to be attacked.

"Erm," Harry said uncertainly, taking a step back. "Is this what people see right before Death By House-Elf? Because it's really creepy."

Hermione licked her lips. "I forgot to mention that I'd been banned from the kitchens permanently," she replied weakly, mirroring his action. "Alright, I think we'd better leave slowly n-"

"Hermy is _leaving_?" an elf gasped. "Hermy cannot be leaving! Hermy is to be coming in!"

A second elf broke out of its trance and dashed forward. "And Potty too! Potty is to be coming in too!"

Like the rushing of a breaking dam, all the elves were suddenly moving, reaching forward to pull the two in, trying to speak over each other, the clamour escalating with each passing second. One elf grabbed Hermione's hand with fervor and pulled her over to a bench, while Harry was fairly thrown into the spot across from her in another elf's enthusiasm to get him seated. He shot her a panicked look, but she knew there was to be no comfort found in her own face; she was as baffled as he.

The elves were getting louder and louder, each of their exclamations blending together in such a cacophony that she could barely understand what they were saying. Faces popped up in front of her, shining with reverence and eager to jabber at her about something or the other, and it was in this confused hubbub that Hermione, seeing how flustered Harry seemed to be getting, finally cried out, " _Enough!_ "

She shot to her feet, irritation and alarm warring with the relief that they'd not been immediately thrown out on their arses.

"What is the meaning of this?" Her voice was steady as she scrutinised the crowd that had encircled them; there were at least a hundred elves here, and despite her sharp tone, not an accusatory glare was to be found directed at her. Had they forgotten their first meeting? Did not one of them recognise her?

"We is being sorry, Hermy," one rickety voice said.

The elves parted way for the oldest elf Hermione had ever seen. The hair which sprouted from his ears was not grey; instead, it looked to be bleached of colour altogether, almost translucent in the light of the kitchen's fires. He was older than Algy, even, but he bore his tea-towel in the same manner that Algy had borne embroidered velvet.

Yellow eyes glinted at her in warmth and another emotion which made her twitch; it was unsettlingly akin to awe. "We elves is being waiting for your arrival. It is being many years."

"Well, I could hardly revisit after you drove me out the first time I came here," she said, lips pursed.

His face was both open with compassion and gently reprimanding. "We is just protecting our knowledges. Mages is taking much from us, and you is being but a mage then," he said placatingly, and Hermione felt a spike of shame. "Now? You is being different, Hermy. The Second Elder is being correct, you is rich with the Fair Elf's touch."

She gasped, ire forgotten; those were words and terms she'd not heard in over ten years.

"The... _Second_ Elder?" she echoed. "Not Algy? And you can feel the Fair Elf on me now?"

"I is not knowing an Algy," the old elf answered. "But the Second Elder is warning us that you is coming whole. When you was coming last time, you was not being _whole_." His gaze slid to where Harry sat, transfixed by the whole conversation. "But you is both now here, and you is both tasting of the Fair Elf's magic."

"Who is this Fair Elf, then?" Harry piped up, hair standing on end at the barest hint of adventure. "Can we go and see her? I think I'd want to meet an elf who had done magic on me! What kind of magic is it? What if it hurts me?"

Hermione winced, but the elf smiled at him indulgently, completely unoffended. "The Fair Elf is only guiding us, never harming, and you is being one of her favoured besides. None of us elves is ever seeing the Fair Elf with our own eyes, not even the Elders." He bowed to Harry, then Hermione. "I is being pleased to meet you, Hermy, Potty. I is Gormy, Hogwarts' head-elf."

The appropriate reply came to her lips before she could properly process it. "Pleased to meet you, ally Gormy."

He looked delighted, especially when Harry took his cue from Hermione and repeated the same greeting clumsily. "You is knowing the addresses! Which elves has been teaching you the addresses?"

"Algy of the De Maldi family," Hermione replied, then added in hesitation, "He's not an Elder, ally Gormy?"

"He is being a proper elf indeed for informing Hermy properly - but he is not being an Elder. The De Maldis is still being thriving," Gormy confirmed, peering at her shrewdly. "We is not being eligible until the natural passing of the bond, but you is knowing this already." He didn't wait for her to respond. "We is thankful for the correct addresses, but Hermy and Potty is not needing them because you is having proper elf names. I is only Gormy to you."

She was startled when, in reply, Harry got straight to the point of their visit. Somehow, it had slipped her mind in all the commotion.

"I get the feeling I'm missing a lot here, but first I want to ask: why are you calling me Potty? Does this have to do with me being possessed by her friend Harry Potter's dead spirit?" He rocked on the bench. "Can't you call me Fawley? That sounds like a pretty decent elf name, you can even remove the 'E' to make it more authentic!"

"Fawly is being a perfectly good elf name," another elf bobbed its head ardently, sounding much younger than Gormy. Her eyes were a watery blue. "Almost as good as Cindy! I is being Cindy!"

An older, green-eyed elf smacked her in the ear. "'Cindy' is not being better than any name for one being touched by the _Fair Elf!_ " came the reprimanding hiss.

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed. "Don't do that! I happen to think Cindy _is_ a better name than Fawley." He grinned at the little elf, not blinking an eye when she gave a cry and attached itself to his leg.

"I is being sorry for Cindy," the older elf said, wringing her hands. "Cindy is being Polly's daughter. Polly is wanting to make her go to bed so she is not disturbing Potty-Fawly anymore."

"It's okay," Harry said. "I like Cindy." He patted the elf's little shoulder, then cocked his head at Gormy. "So... Potty?"

"What we mean to say," Hermione cut in hastily, coming to her senses, "is that Harry here just had… a vision. He's gained some memories from someone that I knew who died and we're a bit confused about the situation. Perhaps you can help shed some light?"

"There is being a serf magic bond between you," Gormy said. "Potty's magic is being shifting and changing because Hermy is being near him. It is being possible that the vision is being part of this, because it is being an old bond; dormant for long, but now being awake again. It is calling to us, and it is saying that you is Potty and she is Hermy."

"I _am_ Potty?" Harry insisted. "Not that I'm Fawley, and Potty's hanging out somewhere in my body? Or that I'm Fawley, and Potty's using me as his living avatar on this earth?"

"You is being Potty." Gormy looked immovable on this point. "There is being no doubt. You is being Potty in a new body. The bond is saying so."

"I guess you were right, Dursley!" Harry rubbed his hands together. "The puzzle's coming together! It's like my reincarnation theory, kinda. How long ago did he die, anyway?"

"A bit over eleven years ago."

"That doesn't make much sense," Harry nodded, "since you're only fourteen, unless like I guessed before it's a disguise and you're hiding yourself in a kid's body. But it fits with my theory. Maybe when he died, his soul was sent to the tiny baby body growing inside my mum, just without the little side effect of not having my previous life's memories that most reincarnation stories talk about. So I'm your Harry Potter, but I grew up as Harry Fawley! Now _that_ makes sense."

"Are you okay with that?" Hermione asked warily. He didn't look like someone who had found out that who he thought he had been for the past eleven years was not… well, exactly who he actually was.

"It wasn't the full Detective Auror Blackmar adventure I wanted, but it's still a mystery. How could my mum name me exactly the same way as Harry Potter, for example? Is she in on it? Why was I reincarnated with memories, anyway? Even if they're buried? And if my magic is shifting, does that mean I'm going to get more of Harry Potter's memories back? And some of his _power_?"

"We is not having all the answers," Gormy said, both patient and regretful.

"Gormy, can you tell us this, then?" Hermione asked as another thought came to her. "Just to be sure, you understand. Harry James Potter's soul - it's not _in between_ anymore, is it? Not between Now and After? Because... when Harry died, he had a request, and the elves said his soul would be in limbo until I had fulfilled it. But if Harry's soul is _here_ , in Harry Fawley..."

"The bond you is having, Hermy, is whole. It is not being split across the realms. The request is still being there, but it is not keeping a soul in between."

"And Harry can't tell me what the request is because he doesn't remember," she muttered to herself.

"What's this request thing all about?" Harry's head swung between her and the Head Hogwarts Elf.

"I don't really know," Hermione admitted. "But it's… how the house-elves I knew helped me get here. It's not that important, though; what's more critical is helping you with these Knockouts. I want to show you my memories, and see if they trigger anything."

She wanted, though she wouldn't say it aloud, to have her Harry back to rights as soon as possible. Even if he was in an eleven year old's body. She'd had to go through the same thing, after all.

Harry pondered it for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose it would be cool to be an ace dragon-riding wizard. When can we start?"

Hermione felt in that moment how fortunate she was. As improbable as it had been, her best friend was _here_ \- alive, if not yet the same - and they once again had things to do and problems to solve. A sense of renewed purpose flared in her, as well as the smaller, cautious hope that perhaps this was the second chance she had yearned for after living lives full of unrealised, now-reachable possibilities.

 _Where Potter go, Granger doth follow._ It felt good to be able to say it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Hermione's no longer being spurned by house-elves at every turn. Hurrah!
> 
> A couple of comments and reviews have mentioned James/Hermione and I just wanted to clarify what I'm going for with this pairing for anyone who's wondering whether or not they want to continue reading. I know that 'slowburn' means different things for different readers, but the way I've planned things out, it looks like the pairing is going to happen slower than many of you might have anticipated. When I write, the most important thing for me is verisimilitude, and there are too many issues here to really be able to smash them together and call it a day: their age difference, Hermione's isolation and abandonment issues, who James is in relation to Hermione's best friend, and so much more.
> 
> I've tagged the fic with them as the pairing, but romance is not the most integral plotline of this arc in the series. It's not even second or third because I've got so many other things I want to explore! Jamione is definitely endgame (and will be more prominent in the sequels), but it'll happen due to other plotlines forcing them together and after a bit more character development on both of their parts. Now, if you do decide to continue reading, hopefully you'll embrace the full journey with me! We've not even scratched the surface on this one.
> 
> This is getting super long but just wanted to finish with a huge thank you to everyone who comments; whether it's a simple thank you or a few paragraphs on your own take of what's happening, they really brighten my day and make me think. I've even incorporated some of your thoughts and ideas for the future, and it's made the story a lot more fleshed-out in the process so thank you!


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